I can barely reach the top shelf of my closet. There’s the bar where I can hang clothes up (mostly cardigans—my favorite), and I can reach that. But above the bar there’s the shelf. Perhaps the closet designers for Southwest Hall figured most people would be able to reach it. I’d like to think that I am “most people,”and I’d like to think I am deserving of a reachable closet shelf. Instead, I fold my jeans and Frisbee them toward the shelf, hoping they will stay but knowing they will likely disrupt those already teetering on the edge, and all will fall.

While at five-foot-two-inches I cannot successfully reach the top shelf without pulling a muscle, I never seem to worry about hitting my head on low tree branches or finding pants that are long enough. My toes don’t dangle off the edge of the bed, nor do my legs cramp in airplanes or the backseats of cars. These limitations don’t apply to my body as they might with others who are taller.

But height is just one way I experience my body. I look in the mirror every day and have come to know what is my body: my hair is my hair, my ears are my ears, my shoulders are my shoulders, my bellybutton is my bellybutton. I know the other numbers of my body beside height: shoe size, dress size, blood pressure and weight. I know that knee-socks will actually climb above my knee, I know how tight my waistband will feel after eating too much (which is always), and I know I will have to stretch to reach the top shelf in my closet. I live in my body and experience it as only I can.

This, to me, is fascinating. Think about how much time you spend with your body. It is, like, forever. Right? Then think about how little we really know about others’ bodies. We are always covered in clothes (in public, at least … I hope) and furthermore, our day-to-day interactions with others don’t require knowledge of their bodies. I don’t need to consider how my roommate uses her body to put clothes in her closet, just as she wouldn’t know of my closet shelf struggle if she didn’t hear my vocal frustrations. Because our direct access to physical bodies is solely our own bodies, there is no way we can experience others’ bodies in the same way as we experience our own.

I don’t intend to glorify the human body here. When I think about it too much, I find the human body and its processes to be actually quite disgusting. But there’s something fantastic with the reality that we have bodies at all, even if they cannot be compared to the magical capabilities of the human mind.

Bodies can be pretty cool, too.

My friend has a go-to song on karaoke nights, a little jingle called “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond. He picks it because everyone knows it, and everyone gets into it as he sings in his low, melodious baritone: “Hands, touching hands, reaching out, touching meeee, touching yooooooooooouuu!” Guaranteed, every time these lines are sung, hands are raised, reached out, placed on the body, then placed on others’ bodies in accordance with the lyrics.

It’s innocent touching; everyone’s happy, everyone’s enthusiastic.

Let’s be enthusiastic that we have bodies, readers. Let’s enjoy our bodies even if they have limits, even if they are a little bit disgusting. Remember, bodies can be pretty cool, too.