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When women are together for any period of time, eventually, we talk about our bodies.

We talk about our skin, our knees, our hair—so much about our hair—how we tame it, cut it, un-grey it. We talk about our breasts, our thighs, our stomachs. Vitamin D levels, libidos, hours of sleep. We discuss what we feed our bodies—our leafy green intake, wine consumption, how many ounces of water we drink. ­

We fret a good deal about bathing suits—how humiliating they are, but necessary, if swimming in public is in order. We discuss fabrics that might hold us in, push us up, veil or celebrate the intricacies of our bodies. We talk about our daughters’ bodies—how much like our own they are. For better or worse, we say.

We are baffled by our bodies. We wonder how to tend to them, be in them, transcend them, day after day. Our bodies run like clockwork, yet routinely shock us. They have been sick and healed, ugly or beautiful, rested and exhausted beyond measure. Our bodies devastate us, but also perform miracles so uncanny, so outlandish and delightful, we can only shake our heads in awe.


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