I am sitting at a bar.

Alone.

On purpose.

No one is waiting for me.

I am not waiting for anyone.

I did not come here to be discovered, rescued,
admired or chosen.

I came because I felt like leaving the house.

That’s it.

No birthday.

No date.

No celebration.

No man.

No mission.

Just a woman, a stool and a perfectly decent glass of wine.

And apparently, for many people, this is shocking.

Women write to me to say they could never do this.

They would need a reason.

A friend in town.

A work thing.

A husband running late.

A story that makes their presence acceptable.

Otherwise, why would a woman be out in the world?

Here’s the answer that seems to rattle people to the core.

Because she wants to be.

I am 70 years old and I have finally run out of interest in explaining myself.

I grew up believing we were the progressive ones.

We had jobs. Opinions. Bank accounts. Shoulder pads that

could cut through glass ceilings.

We thought we had escaped the cage.

Turns out that cage was just a newer model.

Be pleasant.

Be desirable.

Be useful.

Be chosen.

Even our freedom had a purpose.

Go out, but not alone.

Talk, but make it mean something.

Be attractive, but God forbid you attract attention.

Be independent but end up partnered.

Have fun — but please let it lead somewhere respectable.

I am tired.

Not tired of living.

I am wildly interested in living.

I am tired of the requirement that every moment must justify its existence.

Somewhere we picked up the idea that joy must justify itself. That presence must lead somewhere. That if we are visible, pleasant, open, dressed, out in the world — it must be in service of an outcome.

A relationship.

A business connection.

A story.

A future.

But what if a moment could simply be lovely and then be over?

What if a conversation could just be a conversation?

What if going out meant you went home as exactly the same person — except you had lived a little?

What if you don’t need a reason?

As I sit on this barstool, I am not making a statement.

I am not representing womankind.

I am not conducting research.

I am not proving bravery.

I am having a Tuesday.

And if that sounds radical, then something has gone very

wrong with how we’ve taught women to exist.

This book is about that.

It is about being visible without being available.

It is about conversation without contracts.

It is about showing up for your life even when there is no prize at the end. Especially then.

I am done with explanations.

Here is the only one I have left:

I wanted to be here.

And that is reason enough.