As I was sharing an ice cream with family at Cold Stone on 6th Ave and 4th Street this afternoon, my eyes fell upon a familiar face. Fixed on trying to place this woman with piercing blue eyes, pale white skin, and thick flowing hair, I was greeted with her long fierce stare, as if to signal that I must stop intruding on her privacy. Galvino, who was seated next to me, noticed how the woman was staring directly to his right, only then to realize that I was locked in a staring match with her.
Was she a high school mean girl whom I had long forgotten from my days in the Framingham school system or was she a dorm room foe from college? Maybe, I thought, she was a 1980s sitcom star who had disappeared into the "where are they now" annals. When I looked away and then tried to discreetly refocus my gaze, she caught me again.
On the train home her portrait struck me as the author Naomi Wolf. Someone whom I have never thought too seriously about as a feminist and writer, but since seeing her interview with Steve Colbert, I suspect she is feeling a bit paranoid these days for taking such a risk with her new book.
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