4.5M on the treadmill along with .5 of walking. Afterwards, I sunbathe with Lulu on the floor. She sat down next to me and then promptly splayed out, unladylike and unbothered. My eyes linger on the soft ripples stretching across my thighs. Every time I see them, I think of this one time a man told me how disgusted he was to see the dimpling flesh of his wife’s aging body. I confessed immediately “but my skin dimples too” like I was admitting to a crime after a long and sweaty interrogation. My eyes slide past the “HOKA” and I wonder how many miles I will have to run before I can forgive these marks, forgive the girl who so carelessly subjected my body to them. They’d had children—the man and his dimpled wife. She’s paid her dues in both their minds, I hoped. I will have to pay mine on the treadmill for the rest of my life, I suppose. I read a headline the other day questioning “did women ruin the workplace” and thought “this is the state of things.” We are blamed for ruining our bod...