At 32, I try desperately to be a martini girl. I really do. It feels like the sophisticated choice that my foremothers (Nora Ephron, Nancy Meyers, Martha Stewart, Diane Sawyer, et al.) would want for me. Picture it: You’re at a bar, and there I am, across the room, in an itchy but chic black sweater that I had to take an antihistamine to wear before lea…
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