The inquisitive one attended a few runner’s club events and became friends with another runner. They decided to meet, on the following Sunday, at a trailhead and run south along the stream together.

“I grew pumpkins this year,” said the inquisitive one, between breaths while running. “I grew two kinds of pumpkins, one kind to carve and another kind to eat.”

“That’s great!” said the friend, between breaths while running. “You will have lots of fun doing those things. My latest DIY project is building a bar area in the basement. I also want to get a pool table.”

“That’s great!” said the inquisitive one. “You will have lots of fun doing those things.”

And so then, all while running south and turning and running back north, they talked about different kinds of pumpkins and how to carve and eat them, as well as basement bars and how to build them and the difference between pool and billiards.

When they got back to the trailhead, the inquisitive one said, “Running and talking with you was fun. I would love to meet for another run sometime!”

“I hate the pumpkin craze, this time of year,” replied the friend. “Pumpkins are disgusting. Growing them is a bad idea. Most people hate pumpkins. You should grow tomatoes, instead. That’s more normal, anyway.”

That’s when the friend hopped into a souped-up minivan and sped away.

The protagonist of Play It As It Lays, by Joan Didion, is lying on the beach, surrounded by friends—though friends is perhaps too strong of a word—when her husband walks away. She sits up and looks around, and then this happens:

“It occurred to [her] that whatever arrangements were made, they worked less well for women.”

In contrast to the party atmosphere around her, she is merely, introvertedly, noticing the bodies nearby: the female versions of which seem to be aging, and the male versions of which seem to be locked in a timeless vitality. She thinks about her small daughter. She thinks about pregnancy. As an actor, her career is dependent on her looks. And, of course, the Hollywood circles of which she is a (reluctant) member are deeply attuned to physical appearance.

In another chapter, a male friend (or not-friend; is there a synonym for friend that doesn’t imply actual friendship?) invites her on a short trip, along with some other friends (not-friends?).

She says, “I don’t want to do that.”

He says, “Yes you do.”

The chapter ends there; the reader gets the impression that this type of interaction is not uncommon in her life.

I don’t want to oversimplify the complicated life that Didion depicts. Much of the protagonist’s woe seems due to personality flaws and past traumas that are non-gender-specific. And yet, something pertaining to gender is going on here, and this becomes clearer, the further into the book one progresses.

In your life’s experience, have arrangements worked less well for women?

Do you have weekend plans?

I often dread going to a social event, but then I have a great time and feel energized afterward. Does this happen to you?

Geese are social creatures. We can’t go it alone. We need to be strolling in a group, cool and confident. And moving just as slowly . . . or lackadaisically . . . or glacially . . . as we want.

Honk! Honk!

Of course, sometimes a goose prefers to hide in a forest nook and read a book. That’s important, too.

I hope your weekend is full of gaggles of friends . . . or silent book reading. Or both at once.