Call her my girl crush, idol or obsession; whichever word you use- I
love Nora Ephron. I love her writing and movies, how much she loved NYC and,
most importantly, her feelings about egg white omelets. I admire her so much
I felt “bad about my neck” years before I needed to (and silently thank her
when I apply night cream below my chin). So, when I read a review of Richard
Cohen's new Nora Ephron biography She
Made Me Laugh, I immediately headed to Barnes and Noble. Amazon prime would
not do.
I've always felt some sort of connection to Nora; I'm sure
many feel this way but as I read this fantastic
book a few things stood out:
Nora abhorred religion
She didn’t like dancing
And she wasn’t much of a hugger
Why does this matter? It matters because you're supposed to like each
of these things. And each of these things I've kind of fudged liking for a long
time. And so now I feel I can be out.
I will never dance like nobody is watching and can't relate to that
sentiment. I found another non-dancer (and married him) and we saunter over to
the bar when the band begins. Or we watch other people dance and prove my dance
theory and that is that being a good dancer isn’t a prerequisite for liking to
dance.
As for religion, I grew up Jewish-ish. There was no Hebrew school or
bat mitzvah. We didn’t have seders...we had dinners. We only had a rabbi at our wedding because I felt we had to.
And hugging, hugging confuses me. I don't mind a kiss hello but a hug
is reserved for my kids…on visiting day when they’ve been away for three weeks.
I especially hate those awkward moments
where you don’t know if you’re expected to hug or not.
As of today, I am going to own my feelings on these topics. My guess is that you have something you've been pretending to like too. If it's something as silly as dancing or hugging there's no reason to fake it. However, there are some areas
where I’ll make effort to change such as bringing by reusable shopping bags, tracking my
finances (I’d rather dance) and ending my delightful, summer fling with rosé.
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