I confess: I spy on people. Especially when they have books. I want to see what they’re reading.
The woman next to me in the coffee shop has the book, “Men Explaining Things to Me,” on her table. I want to ask her, “Do you want me to explain that book?” I thought it would be funny, right? She – and other women with this book – probably have never heard that joke before.
I decided not to say it to her, mostly because I like living. I think a joke like that one could be hazardous to my longevity.