For our big New York City weekend in the late '80s, my boyfriend Peter, a Washington D.C. stockbroker, took me to a fancy hotel on Central Park West and bought tickets for Cats. After the show, we met his friends for a late dinner at Elaine’s. Like Peter, these friends were 30-something Wall Street guys who tossed their ties over their shoulders before tucking in; the gesture, which I had never seen on the Virginia farms where I grew up, struck me as tribal.
Over dinner, someone’s wife turned to me and asked, “Emma, what do you do?” I answered as I always did, just like Woody Allen’s 17-year-old girlfriend Tracy in his movie Manhattan: “I go to high school.”
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