My Lovely Lady Lumps

At the risk of seeming creepy (or, as Lawrence Ferlinghetti would say, "constantly risking absurdity") I walked into the women's restroom in the Reynold's Club yesterday morning with the intention of taking a picture in one of the stalls....




There are references to sisterhood. And nail polish. And the insufficient behavior of men. People gleefully talk about shopping, and our apparent natural tendency toward it. They bemoan the pain of baby-delivering, and emphasize the importance of remembering birthdays and buying diamonds. Oh, and, one word: shoes.

Culture speaks to your gender as if it already knows you, and women pick up the trend. People forever try to weave a thread through every woman in the room, or company, or country, letting us know what we have in common and how we stand in solidarity.

Rarely do I feel the tug of that thread, but standing in a bathroom stall reading a flyer for “Love Your Body Week”, taking in the responses, I did. I felt downright giddy.

It was all there.

The Cheerfully Sincere--“My Eyes!”
The Confident & Sexy--“My hips”; “My curves”
The Intellectual--“My mind”
The Shocking--"My clit"; "My penis"
The Practical--"My strength & flexibility"
The Irreverent--"My left elbow"; "My left fallopian tube"
The Vain--"My breasts, my nipples, my butt!"

Women are not tied together with shoes, or shopping, or purses--don't try to lump us that way, because it isn't going to work. We don't all have babies. Or want diamonds. Or hate men. Or love men.

But we do all go to the same room to pee. And if you ask a question on a paper in a stall, all kinds of woman are going to scramble in their bags for a pen and let you know their opinion.

It's in the bathroom stall, and not Victoria's Secret, that I feel the solidarity.