Words like “obsessed” and “adore” hovered over the room, heavy with italics.
This was an event, with a photographer, two hashtags - #itsmemargaret and #margaretmoment - and humans of every age, gender, race and manner of ironic eyewear one-upping each other’s devotion to the story we were there to celebrate. Unfortunately, I’d stopped reading the invitation after “Please join us for an afternoon with Judy Blume” what more did I need to know? Alas, this gathering wasn’t going to be the intimate affair I’d imagined, the one where Blume and I sat in an empty theater and bonded over a box of Milk Duds. Mine said, “Are You There God? It’s Me, Elisabeth.” One table was piled high with copies of Blume’s book, another with personalized diaries.
The hip SoHo hangout was abuzz with laughing, chatting, selfie-snapping, champagne-sipping fans of the novel that launched a thousand breast enhancement exercises and frank conversations about puberty. When I arrived at the Crosby Street Hotel for a screening of “ Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret,” a man in the lobby located my name on a list, then directed me to a line for the coat check.
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