The essay about my body (which isn't getting any younger) that I wrote for Real Simple is now online. It starts with my daughter, a sculptor, asking me to pose for her work. Her theme? Deterioration of the body. (Thanks for thinking of me?)
Warning. It gets graphic -- like I refer to my breasts as my sad Walter Matthau eyes; they’re that soulful-looking these days.
I've gotten such stunning emails and letters about it from women of many different ages, which really surprised me.
Here's the link. (Note: There's an editorial gaff -- a small paragraph near the end interrupts the piece and then is repeated later. Sorry about that. Out of my hands.)