In my fantasies of adulthood, I’ve always been the Carrie Bradshaw of my own cosmopolitan narration, and because I was the type to attend summer camps and conferences meant to “empower young women,” I internalized the aesthetics of high-powered boomer ladies glibly advising a banquet hall of teenage girls to plan out their marriages on an Excel spreadsheet. This is the calling of modern femininity, or so it has always seemed to me as I snuck re-runs of “Sex and the City” past my parents’ watchful supervision. A woman of the 21st century smashes and dashes.
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