Bookish women of a certain age all did kind of the same thing around kind of the same time, I am convinced — around 12 or 13, we finished with all the Judy Blume the library had to offer us in the children’s section and, armed with very very very dangerous knowledge like how to work a card catalogue, we came across Wifey, Blume’s 1978 novel for adults. We found it on the shelf in a new section (because while we had perhaps forayed into the grown-up areas of the library before, it was usually for genre reads like mysteries and true crime), read the back of the book, wondered if something wasn’t a little off-kilter, and instead of checking it out — because small-town librarians do talk — we curled up in a corner of the library and read.
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