I Love Women Who Laugh From Their Stomach

There is a kind of woman whose laugh enters the room before anyone remembers what was funny. It starts in her chest, climbs into her shoulders, and arrives at the table like somebody has knocked over a tray of glasses. She is not trying to be charming. That is precisely why she is.

She might slap the nearest arm. She might bend forward until her earrings swing. There is usually a moment when she tries to speak and only makes the whole thing worse. Somebody says, “Girl, breathe,” which, naturally, does nothing.

I love women who laugh like that. Not the polite little exhale that tells a stranger his joke has been acknowledged. I mean the laugh that interrupts a story, requires a napkin, and makes the person telling it wait until further notice.

We have developed so many attractive ways to appear amused without appearing affected. A small smile. A knowing glance. The practiced expression of somebody who has seen everything and would hate to seem impressed. It photographs beautifully. It can also make a dinner feel like an audition.

An outrageous laugh ruins the audition. Suddenly nobody is checking how they look from across the table. The woman laughing has forgotten her good side, and the people around her have briefly forgotten theirs. A whole room becomes less interested in being observed.

Of course, the world has opinions about how much space a woman should occupy. Volume is often treated as a character flaw when it comes from the wrong person. Too loud, too much, not ladylike, not mysterious enough. The acceptable woman is delighted, but never so delighted that the next table notices.

Which is funny, because the next table usually wants to know what is happening. There is a peculiar magnetism to a group of women losing themselves over something small: a badly timed comment, a family nickname, an impression so accurate it should probably be illegal.

The joke itself is often impossible to explain. You had to be there, and even if you were there, the explanation would not survive daylight. That is part of the pleasure. Not everything worth laughing at can be turned into content with a caption underneath.

Sometimes the woman with the biggest laugh is not the funniest person in the group. She is its most generous audience. She gives a joke somewhere to land. She lets another person be ridiculous without making them regret it. In her company, people grow braver about telling the story properly, including the embarrassing parts.

She is also capable of making an ordinary afternoon feel like a memory while it is still happening. A kitchen chair pulled out too far. Somebody leaning against the counter. An auntie calling from the next room to ask what is so funny, then laughing before she has heard the answer.

That sound has a social life of its own. You can recognize it through a wall. You can find your people in a crowded restaurant by following it. Years later, you may forget what everyone wore or ordered, but remember exactly how somebody threw her head back.

I do not need every woman to be loud, and I do not mistake quietness for a lack of joy. Some people laugh with their eyes; some fold inward. But there is something wonderful about the woman who refuses to edit her delight down to a tasteful size.

Let her snort. Let her clap. Let her need a minute. The story can wait. The whole table is better for it.