My name is Lisa Kogan, and I'm a 45-year-old single woman who maintains that life is a fragile bit of luck in a world based on chance, that Ruth Bader Ginsburg should be cloned, that nobody's grown a decent tomato since 1963.
What else? I live in New York City because it's the only place that would take me. I work at O magazine, which sounds vaguely glamorous—but mostly involves explaining why I can't get tickets to Oprah's show for my cousin's dentist. I have spent the best years of my life growing out bangs, searching for a good bra and wishing I were skinny. (Here's a tip for anybody who's looking to drop a few pounds: wishing doesn't do it.)
I don't understand money, football, corporate culture, or the computer I'm typing on. I used to think the world wasn't all that complicated—just add water and live—but along came AIDS and crack and Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, and I guess I grew up. Still, I'm deeply nostalgic for that time when you had to walk across a room to change channels and there was no such thing as a spy satellite capable of spotting the precancerous mole on my inner thigh.
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