Our bodies, our worse-off selves.

I have occasion to regularly visit a wonderful vintage jewelry/resale clothing business in town. The owners defy small-business odds: thriving as a family-owned venture, they’re now serving the second- and third-generations of regulars.

Most of the customers are women, and they feel so at home that personal conversation flows easily. There’s a bit of that airplane-travel phenomenon, in which seatmates trade stories about intimate stuff  precisely because they are strangers. Not surprisingly, a lot of the chatting centers on the trials of aging.

As it turns out, this is a sort of competitive sport for middle-aged women.

I can just about guarantee that if four women are within hearing distance of each other, and one mentions her hot flashes, at least one of the remaining three will describe waking up more often, with soggier nightwear and a less sympathetic husband.

If you need reading glasses, someone else can’t even find hers, she’s so blind.

Bras suddenly too tight? She can hardly breathe.

Feet wider? Her shoes look like flippers.

Don’t even get started on haircuts.

Men this age take the opposite approach. I bet if you eavesdrop on a group of 50ish men in a locker room and if one of them happens to blurt out some age-related failing, the others will maintain a respectful silence. Or change the subject.

Much is written about the ways men and women communicate with each other, but I’m still waiting for the book titled  “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. And, Girlfriend, My Flight to Venus was Bumpier than Yours.”

Yes, I know. You’d read it if you could find your damn glasses.