The five-year-old boy-child demanded a plot summary of Nora Ephron’s Crazy Salad, so both boy- and girl-child got a kindergartener’s version of the feminist revolution. I might as well have been telling them about the dinosaurs, it seemed that long ago and crazy to them. So that warms my heart. Thanks, feminism.
Sometimes I realize just how perfect it was to come of age as a female when I did. Post-Title IX, ’80s moms, ’90s girl power—sometimes I feel like I won the Women in History lottery.
My birthday is coming up, so I’ve been thinking about Sally Rogers. Funny Sally, with her blonde hair bobbed and curled, a black bow affixed on the left side, flowered dresses that cinch at the waist and billow over the hips. She’s the type of woman who wears a single strand of pearls that settles just above the collarbone when she goes out for the evening.
My birthday is in late February and hers is in early March and “Where You Been, Fassbinder?” is the most depressing example of what it’s like to be a single woman, dateless, on your birthday.
I often forget that I live in many separate worlds, reminded only when two or more of those worlds accidentally intersect.