Today we sign the papers to sell our home in the woods and to buy our home in the small town suburbs. Granted, small town suburbs are way different from big, bigger, and biggest city suburbs. But I still feel obligated to consider what I am wearing in case someone comes to the door. Where I live now, no one comes to the door unless they were invited three weeks ago or they have perhaps been wandering lost in the woods for several days and are desperate for a hot shower, a real meal, and a telephone. (Before they learned to drive, my teenaged children used to say they would need an emergency survival kit to sneak out at night.) The upshot of my forest location is that I wear whatever strikes my mood in which to sit at home and write (what I do for a living). I can wear my really comfy sweaters with all the holes in them, my house socks (my son Akili asked me if I killed Grover-the-muppet for his pelt), my pink Hawaiian flower mini-dress that looked terrific on me when I was 20 lbs. thinner, my black flannel vest that pilled up with white puffballs years ago, or I can even walk around in my yard in my nightie. My new house is far too elegant for me to wear these clothes. I will have to wear my grandmother’s pearls to work at my desk. In fact, I think I will have to buy an entirely new wardrobe to match my new home, including sweaters without holes. I might have to start wearing heels, even to vacuum the carpets. And nylons. I need a frilly 1950s apron to cook in my stylish new kitchen. I better straighten my hair and have it turned in a pageboy. When will I find time to write between cleaning my oven and washing my ceilings? Oh Betty Friedan, Oh Gloria Steinem, help me; what have I gotten myself into?