“The real curse of womanhood,” I tell them as I shrug off my winter coat and snow-crusted boots, still winded from the three-story walk-up, “is that we never get to forget we have a body. And I don’t just mean because we have to look or move or smell a certain way. I mean, biologically. We’re so tied to these stupid, fleshy things.” I grab my midsection. More of it in my hands than ever before. “Every month, they remind us that it’s all out of our control—and we can’t even see what they’re up to!”
