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Your neighborhood book club chooses Anna Karenina and you profess to love it. Your girlfriends from college call all male authors misogynistic and you agree. The women at
your ladies’ night out insist tequila doesn’t give hangovers and you toss back your third shot and say you read it’s because
of the low sugar content. Your yoga friends extend Dry January through April and you stock your fridge with drinks made of
hemp and adaptogens. Your work friends blame their chronic carpal tunnel on bosses who feign Excel ignorance and colleagues
who can’t unpack the dishwasher and you pull on your wrist brace and say you’ll absolutely refuse to plan the next holiday
party. Your mom frowns during your third rescheduled coffee date as you clutch your latte, create a spreadsheet of coworker
allergens, and insist you don’t mind that it’s not in your job description, the company has been good to you. Because you
believe that it has. In that moment, at that time, you are sure.
Not because you are a liar, but because you are a chameleon. You slip in and out of versions of yourself, consciously and
subconsciously fitting in with friends old and new, colleagues and bosses, partners and siblings. As many versions of yourself
as there are seasons of housewives who claim to be real. Though some say there are only three: the one you see yourself as,
the one others see you as, and the one you truly are. Maybe it’s that last one that all the others are trying to find.
And maybe, finally, I have.