So the other day a well-intended reader sent me a friendly email suggesting I leave the baby with Ryan and attend some seminar at the Aspen Institute.
She even called him “the babe,” proving once again she is one of my biggest fans.
I should be flattered that this sweet woman was thinking of me, was nice enough to reach out and take the time out of her day to sit down and write me an email. I probably should have taken her up on her invitation and for once, had an excuse to blow-dry my hair and put on some mascara, maybe even a pair of shoes that aren’t flip-flops.
Instead I reacted like a defensive teenager. “Are you sure you’re writing to the right person?” I snapped, as much as one can snap over the keyboard. “It’s not exactly up my alley.”
She responded with a curt, “I thought it would be something different for you.”
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If that’s not the writing on the wall, I don’t know what is. I’m supposed to be the Aspen Princess, after all. Why would I not want to gallivant around to all the wonderful events happening there all summer long?
It got me thinking about what defines us. Is Aspen Princess just a moniker, or is it something more? Is it a name that I’ve built over the last 15 years, or is it a label that’s no longer appropriate, something I’ve moved on from and grown out of?
I’ve had many labels throughout my adult life, titles that defined me, sometimes in the eyes of others more than in my own. To a college boyfriend whose mother was first-generation German, “Jewish” was impossible for his family to get past, even though I tried to explain that if I could use three words to describe myself, Jewish would not be one of…
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