Let me tell you about my friend Anne. Anne is not a big walker. In fact I am pretty sure Anne hates walking. When I meet her for coffee up the block at the Bluestone Cafe, Anne drives. When she comes down the block for dinnerc cocktails at my house, yes, folks, SHE DRIVES.
But what Anne does do is raise chickens…bake her own bread…tear out her own kitchen cabinets, ceiling, and floor, and rebuild themherself, by hand, from the ground up. Anne even cleans her own house. (Yes, I can hear the gasps all the way from California!)
You might think Anne sounds like an earthy-crunchy Birkenstocks+granola-with-a-chainsaw kind of gal. And she is. But she also is definitively NOT. When I describe her this way — OK, Anne, you bake your own bread, have a mixed race family, are raising your own chickens and remodelling your kitchen yourself — Anne says, that is so not me you are describing, that is some other woman.
And Anne has a point. It would be equally correct to describe Anne thus: OK, Anne, you make a damn fine Cosmo and a fabulous Vodka Gimlet, you’re fluent in French, you’re really really smart and can always translate the minutiae of Washington to me, you commuted back and forth to Paris when you were working in the financial industry, you’re very savvy even though you can’t remember people’s names, and you have a lot of very cool shoes — surely Anne would say YES, yes, that is me.
In fact, Anne is so savvy and current, what she’s doing in her own yard has been twice chronicled upon the altar of all that is cosmopolitan and cool — first in the Business Section and more recently in the Sunday Magazine(!) of the New York Times in a piece cleverly titled “The Femivore’s Dilemma.”
But Anne, kid, you’re not in Paris anymore. That we can say with absolutely certainty. And if you don’t believe me, we can walk outside and ask the chickens.
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