My friends and I are lounging by a beautiful pool in Oman, enjoying our girls-only break. There is lighthearted chat about jobs and boys and the stupid things we’ve done on nights out. It takes one mention of a dress worn somewhere, one adjustment of a bikini, for the conversation to turn to our bodies.
My group of friends are all gorgeous. But I sit and listen quietly as they list the things about themselves they do not like, bemoaning no longer being the same size or shape they were at 18 now they are in their late 20s. I try to interject, but this conversation, with its refrains of “I wish I had” and “if only I could wear”, is almost a ritual now; these women have been conditioned to go through the motions of self-criticism in order to prove that they are aware of their supposed flaws.
