One of my favorite memories is skinny dipping in college with three other lady friends. It was senior week, and we were looking for ways to appropriately commemorate our college years in our brains. So we piled into a car, changed en route into our suits (and yes, I waved my bra out of the car like a proud flag) and headed to Cornell's famous gorges. We climbed down the precarious moss-strewn, wooden stairwell into the world of nymphs and magic. And we shed our clothes and walked slowly into the water, thrilled, drenched in a gorgeous moonlight. I can still close my eyes and see us each settled on our respective boulders, feet lapping in the rushing water, smiling at each other, smelling the woods, feeling the wind, loving this moment that comprises fantasies of the hopeless romantic variety. And feeling so close to each other. I don't think I've ever told anyone this story, except my ex-boyfriend, who then made a snarky joke that he was there, watching us in our glory (he was joking, but it makes me giggle thinking that there could have been spies on our goddess-like bliss).