Gross Anatomy

by Mara Altman

  They were singing “You Are My Sunshine” to a resident who had just turned ninety years old. A sign hung from her balcony: “Come by for cake from 11 to 1 pm.”

  Before the hour was up, there were at least twenty people enjoying the atmosphere around the pool without a scrap of cloth for comfort, protection, or concealment. Two guys bro’ed out as if at a neighborhood barbecue, except they were in the Jacuzzi and completely nude. “I’m Ernie,” one said, reaching out his hand. “Herman,” said the other, shaking hands. They cracked open some Millers. Before long, they were talking about Nam. Both, it turns out, had been drafted around the same time.

  “I like the types I’m seeing,” my mom said. “They let their cottage cheese show.”

  My mom has never been one for political correctness. I’m not usually either, but in her presence, I seem to get a little bit more precious. “Yes, there’s a lot of different body types,” I both agreed and corrected.

  You can’t stare that long, because someone will call security (this rule was clearly stated on the forms we signed during registration), but I took peeks here and there. The majority of the people were over fifty and had figures that are typically shamed, ridiculed, or deemed undesirable. There was dimpled skin everywhere. Scars from surgeries past were paraded around like a stubborn spaghetti stain on a beloved old couch. There were thick thighs, tiny cocks, bunched-up tummies, hairy moles, wrinkled bums, rolls of flesh, and breasts long and droopy, like overstretched taffy. And no one so much as flinched or tried to hide.

  This was a place where people came not to perseverate on their imperfections, but to revel in the fact that they had a working body—the most miraculous thing of all.

  As we went to order some lunch—a hamburger and a BLT—my mom finally took off her robe. Was it the weather or the diverse company baring themselves that had freed her from the ten pounds of terrycloth? I couldn’t be sure.

  We ate by the pool and then went for a swim. Nudity, after a few hours, had normalized; it became background noise to a perfect relaxing day. We’d stopped gawking and cocking our heads at new arrivals and instead gossiped about people we knew. My mom was also sure to sprinkle in some platitudes about what to expect of motherhood. “Sure it’s difficult, but it’s also the most amazing, life-expanding thing a person can do.” I’ll remain cautiously skeptical until I meet these little humans. Huge life changes, I’ve found, always turn out best when first met with low expectations.

  Many of the people around the resort also commented on my belly. “It’s so great to see a pregnant woman enjoying her body,” said a man in his sixties with a paunch to rival mine. To nudists, it seems, the definition of “enjoying one’s body” meant baring it all in front of strangers. I enjoyed the term’s specificity in this context and wondered if they thought it at all possible to savor their own form with khakis on.

  Before we left for the day, we tried our hand at pickleball. By that time, six p.m., everyone had deserted his or her athletic pursuits for the potluck and live DJ happening down at the rec hall, so we had the place to ourselves. We slipped on our tennis shoes and went to the courts. With thirty-five extra pounds, I wasn’t tremendously agile, but I did my best, which mostly meant standing in one place while my mom ran around collecting balls that I couldn’t run and hit.

  Before we left, I needed to do one more thing. I surreptitiously peeled off the orange sticker and handed my phone to my mom. I went deep and held up my racket as if about to hit a ball. I wanted a photo to remind myself of everything—the hair, the sweat, the swollen ankles, the acne covering both face and chest, and the massive ball of babies on my front—because in that moment, that’s who I was and there was no shame.

  Acknowledgments

  The many academics, researchers, and specialists who took time out of their busy lives to share their expertise with me—thank you from the bottom of my plantar warts to the top of my head lice. Without their generosity and knowledge, this book would have been very uninformative! I’d like to thank my bff Chandra Lee Breslow, Reyna Texler, Nora Weinberg, Brian Abrams, Natasha Chey, Luke Kummer, Nita Praditpan, Gabrielle Galanek, Josh Breslow, Margo Adler, Jen Weiss, Jana Winter, Karen Kashkin, Judy Altman, Phoebe Schraer, Esther Altman, Julie Hassman, Briony Chown, Mariah Dilworth, and Maeve Higgins for their support, encouragement, and/or body-related musings.

  Warm breezes, Williamsburg Bridge walks, lox-and-bagel sandwiches, expansive views (looking at you, Brooklyn Bridge Park), Chucho, and cottage cheese (the dairy as well as the thigh product) for sustenance and/or inspiration. They aren’t traditional writers’ colonies, but I’d like to thank the coffee shops—Holsem, Caffè Calabria, and Lazy Llama—that offered me space and delicious brew while I contemplated, freaked out, procrastinated, and finally put words down on paper.

  The most gargantuan thanks goes to Kerri Kolen, my editor (as soon as I heard her last name, I knew we’d make the perfect team). She’s been a dream come true—attentive, patient, enthusiastic, and opinionated about hot-button issues like vaginal discharge and earwax. Thank you for believing, for giving essential feedback, and for being gross. Thank you to the team at Putnam, and to Anabel Pasarow, Margo Lipschultz, Elena Hershey, and Brennin Cummings for picking up the reins and treating this humble hemorrhoidal book like a Triple Crown thoroughbred. I’m indebted to copyediting mavens Maureen Klier and Anna Jardine for their meticulous reading and their grammar wizardry. Adil Dara Kim and Leah Goren for creating an eye-catching jacket that shows we can be glamorous and hairy at the same time. Erin Hosier, my agent, who believed that pubes deserve a place in American literature and who went out on a limb to help me help them claim their rightful position. Also, for still answering my calls. I don’t take that for granted! Maggie Weinrich for being the absolute biggest support as well as a gung-ho sidekick during the majority of these bodily adventures. You’re the best, Mags! Kat Alexander, my book doula and thought midwife, who helped me via hours of conversation to spin my half-baked revelations into palatable (and hopefully relatable) paragraphs. David Blum, a teacher, mentor, friend, and the champion of my more foul ideas, pushed me to pay attention to what I pay attention to (no matter how gross it was). He also deserves a massive thanks for pressuring me to confront my hair shame and write “Bearded Lady,” the piece that became the cornerstone of this book. My mom, Deena Altman, who is both my biggest fan and biggest critic, for poring through drafts with a nitpicky attitude that often made me cranky but always caused improvements, and even more so, for giving me a great shot at body acceptance by effortlessly modeling it since my childhood. Dad, don’t worry, you get a thanks, too. Thanks, Dad! The bros—Matt and Logan, also! Dave Goldsmith, my husband and an extraordinarily private person, for allowing and trusting me to splash our life and interactions on paper for the world to see. Also, in a society that continually tries to convince us that we are perpetually flawed, I have been lucky to have a partner who reflects back to me nothing but wholeness (except for every other day when he tells me my pits could use a freshening up). And finally, I’d like to thank the fetuses developing inside me, the genesis of even more curiosity and awe. If a penis is growing inside me, does that mean I can say, “I have balls”?

  About the Author

  Mara Altman enjoys writing about issues that embarrass her (e.g., chin hair), because she has found that putting shame on the page defuses the stigma, leaving her with a sense of empowerment and freedom. Her first book, Thanks for Coming, an investigation into love and orgasm, was translated into three languages. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, Salon, and New York magazine, among other publications. Before going freelance, Altman worked as a staff writer for The Village Voice and daily newspapers in India and Thailand. An alumna of Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, she lives in San Diego with quite a few other hairy beings.

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