There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises. The first involves buying a red sports car you can’t afford. The second involves taking off everything you can afford—your clothes, your baggage, your ego—and standing barefoot in the moss.
She blew out the candle. She made her wish. There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises
Paula stood in the changing room (there were no walls, just a curtain of beads) for eleven minutes. She peeled off her linen pants. Then her organic cotton top. Then—deep breath—the matching underwear she’d bought specifically because “someone might see it.” There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises
Sage didn’t laugh. She just pointed to a wicker basket labeled “Modesty: Please check here.” There are two kinds of fortieth-birthday-eve crises