His fingers pressed beneath the right side of my rib cage, probing until he could feel the lower edge of my liver. The one time we made out, in a Wendy’s restroom, Peter immediately put his hands under my shirt. I consumed nothing but cran-water and flaxseed oil for weeks, until I was so malnourished I could hardly get out of bed. In eighth grade I tried to slim my liver to win the affection of Peter Brookshire, a precocious hepatic fanatic. She tells me about her abnormally slender liver, only eight centimeters thick. Betsy was the darling of all the renal boys, who in Sarah’s school were the cutest.īut Betsy never had anything on my liver, Sarah says. Sarah tells me about her high school rival, Betsy, whose kidneys were the size of a toddler’s fists and perfectly shaped. We have longed also for smaller, daintier kidneys. We both have always wished our small intestines were a few feet longer, like those of the world’s top fashion models. Our carotid arteries are of similar diameter, thicker than the feminine ideal. At happy hour, my coworker Sarah and I bond, in the way of women, by cataloguing the flaws of our internal organs.
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