Meghan doesn’t seem to like it. But I insisted, this afternoon, that my husband call me a “dirty moderate” over and over. He complied with that—and with a few other requests.
My issue with Meghan isn’t her level of moderation, but rather her level of silliness. And, of course, the fact that she likes to be silly out loud, and in public, rather than scribbling in a little spiral-bound notebook, like I did when I was in my twenties.
Little notebooks are great: you can burn them. Or you can lose them in the back of your closet. Or you can flip through the contents, muttering to yourself, “well, well, well. It’s a good thing we didn’t have blogs back then, let me tell you. Or Twitter, for that matter.”
Now letters, of course, are a different matter. Excuse me: I have a few blackmail payments to make. My accounts are in arrears again, and my friends are starting to make little coughing sounds that vaguely resemble the word “Wikipedia” . . .
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