others in the loop. Originality was met with smug politesse. Nevertheless, due perhaps to her perplexing weekend, Mindy had had an idea that she planned to pursue. It had popped into her head during the ride back to Manhattan in the rental car, with James driving and Mindy mostly looking at her BlackBerry or staring straight ahead. She would start a blog about her own life.
And why not? And why hadn’t she thought of this before? Well, she had, but she’d resisted the idea of putting her mincey little thoughts out there on the Internet with her name attached for all to see. It felt so com-O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
69
mon; after all, anyone could do it and did. On the other hand, very good people were doing it these days. It was one of the new obligations, like having children, for smart people to make an effort to get some sensible opinions out there in the ether.
Now Mindy typed in the title of her new blog: “The Joys of Not Having It All.” Not wholly original, perhaps, but original enough; she was quite sure no one else was nailing this particular female lament with such preciseness.
“Scenes from a weekend,” she wrote. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, staring at the mostly blank computer screen. “Despite global warming, it was a spectacular weekend in the Hamptons,” she typed. It had been nearly perfect—eighty degrees, the leaves a halo of dusky pinks and yellows, the grass still very green on the two-acre expanse of lawn on Redmon Richardly’s property. The air was still and lazy with the peaty scent of decay, a scent, Mindy thought, that made time stand still.
Mindy and James and Sam had left the city late on Friday night to avoid the traffic, arriving at midnight to red wine and hot chocolate.
Redmon and Catherine’s baby, Sidney, was asleep, dressed in a blue one-sie in a blue crib in a blue room with a wallpaper band of yellow ducks encircling the ceiling. Like the baby, the house was new but pleasantly reassuring, reminding Mindy of what she didn’t have—namely, a baby and a pleasant house in the Hamptons to which one could escape every weekend, and to which one could someday make the ultimate escape: retirement. It was, Mindy realized, becoming harder and harder to jus-tify why she and James didn’t have these things that were no longer the appurtenances of the rich but only of the comfortable middle class.
The ease of the Richardlys’ life was made all the more enviable when Catherine revealed, in a private moment between her and Mindy in the eight-hundred-square-foot kitchen, where they were loading the dishwasher, that Sidney had been conceived without the aid of technology. Catherine was forty-two. Mindy went to bed with a pain in her heart, and after James fell asleep (immediately, as was his habit), Mindy was consumed with examining this riddle of what one got in life and why.
Just after her fortieth birthday, in the midst of a vague discontent, Mindy began seeing a shrink, a woman who specialized in a new psycho-70
Candace Bushnell
analytropic approach called life adjustment. The shrink was a pretty, mature woman in her late thirties with the smooth skin of a beauty devo-tee; she wore a brown pencil skirt with a leopard-print shirt and open-toed Manolo Blahnik pumps. She had a five-year-old girl and was recently divorced. “What do you want, Mindy?” she’d asked in a flat, down-to-basics, corporate tone of voice. “If you could have anything, what would it be? Don’t think, just answer.”
“A baby,” Mindy said. “I’d like another baby. A little girl.” Before she’d said it, Mindy had had no idea what was ailing her. “Why?” the shrink asked. Mindy had to think about her answer. “I want to share myself.
With someone.” “But you have a husband and a child already. Isn’t that so?” “Yes, but my son is ten.” “You want life insurance,” said the shrink.
“I don’t know what you mean.” “You want insurance that someone is still going
And why not? And why hadn’t she thought of this before? Well, she had, but she’d resisted the idea of putting her mincey little thoughts out there on the Internet with her name attached for all to see. It felt so com-O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
69
mon; after all, anyone could do it and did. On the other hand, very good people were doing it these days. It was one of the new obligations, like having children, for smart people to make an effort to get some sensible opinions out there in the ether.
Now Mindy typed in the title of her new blog: “The Joys of Not Having It All.” Not wholly original, perhaps, but original enough; she was quite sure no one else was nailing this particular female lament with such preciseness.
“Scenes from a weekend,” she wrote. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, staring at the mostly blank computer screen. “Despite global warming, it was a spectacular weekend in the Hamptons,” she typed. It had been nearly perfect—eighty degrees, the leaves a halo of dusky pinks and yellows, the grass still very green on the two-acre expanse of lawn on Redmon Richardly’s property. The air was still and lazy with the peaty scent of decay, a scent, Mindy thought, that made time stand still.
Mindy and James and Sam had left the city late on Friday night to avoid the traffic, arriving at midnight to red wine and hot chocolate.
Redmon and Catherine’s baby, Sidney, was asleep, dressed in a blue one-sie in a blue crib in a blue room with a wallpaper band of yellow ducks encircling the ceiling. Like the baby, the house was new but pleasantly reassuring, reminding Mindy of what she didn’t have—namely, a baby and a pleasant house in the Hamptons to which one could escape every weekend, and to which one could someday make the ultimate escape: retirement. It was, Mindy realized, becoming harder and harder to jus-tify why she and James didn’t have these things that were no longer the appurtenances of the rich but only of the comfortable middle class.
The ease of the Richardlys’ life was made all the more enviable when Catherine revealed, in a private moment between her and Mindy in the eight-hundred-square-foot kitchen, where they were loading the dishwasher, that Sidney had been conceived without the aid of technology. Catherine was forty-two. Mindy went to bed with a pain in her heart, and after James fell asleep (immediately, as was his habit), Mindy was consumed with examining this riddle of what one got in life and why.
Just after her fortieth birthday, in the midst of a vague discontent, Mindy began seeing a shrink, a woman who specialized in a new psycho-70
Candace Bushnell
analytropic approach called life adjustment. The shrink was a pretty, mature woman in her late thirties with the smooth skin of a beauty devo-tee; she wore a brown pencil skirt with a leopard-print shirt and open-toed Manolo Blahnik pumps. She had a five-year-old girl and was recently divorced. “What do you want, Mindy?” she’d asked in a flat, down-to-basics, corporate tone of voice. “If you could have anything, what would it be? Don’t think, just answer.”
“A baby,” Mindy said. “I’d like another baby. A little girl.” Before she’d said it, Mindy had had no idea what was ailing her. “Why?” the shrink asked. Mindy had to think about her answer. “I want to share myself.
With someone.” “But you have a husband and a child already. Isn’t that so?” “Yes, but my son is ten.” “You want life insurance,” said the shrink.
“I don’t know what you mean.” “You want insurance that someone is still going
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