Swimming And into the ocean I go to lose my mind and find my soul poster

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Swimming And into the ocean I go to lose my mind and find my soul poster

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Swimming And into the ocean I go to lose my mind and find my soul poster

Though Kall wouldn’t be her last name, not for long; after the events of the afternoon she’d be known as Julia Lerner, wife of Charlie Lerner. Julia knew that in Silicon Valley, and especially at the levels on which she operated, changing one’s last name was considered passé, an incline of the head to the patriarchy: why not ask for an allowance while she was at it, let her husband manage the money; carry out munchies for the boys on poker night, squealing at the ass slap on her way back to the kitchen. It was the expected thing, to keep one’s last name, especially given her career. But that was why Julia was changing her own. To hint at an inner traditionalist. She already courted that market, subtly; when giving speeches, she usually mentioned that while her job as the second-highest executive at one of the world’s most valuable technology companies was tremendously difficult, it was nothing compared to that of a mother, so bravo, bravo, let’s hear it for the mothers. The audience dutiful in its applause, like junior congressmen saluting veterans, and then she would press forward: balance, childcare, empower. Her (subtly) enhanced red hair, cut to the shoulders, rounding out the image—her heels high, sweaters tight, though with conservative necklines.

Once married, Julia planned to add some bits about her and Charlie to the mix, reflections on her good taste in landing the perfect partner. And then, once they had kids—because naturally kids would follow—she would post about the whole family. I used to think what I did at work, you know, managing billions of dollars at one of the world’s most valuable companies—I used to think that was the important thing! But it wasn’t until I became a mother that I understood it’s what I do at home that truly matters. Raising our next generation. Our future.

You know, all that stupid shit.

Plus, Kall wasn’t even her real last name, anyway.

The temperature outside was in the high seventies, the sun’s flame reduced by a thin gauze of clouds: a perfect Saturday afternoon in Napa Valley. Though Eisner Gardens had not been her first choice of venue. Originally Julia had thought Napa too basic: yes there were the nice parts, the private estates and wine caves, but there were also the factory wineries stuffed with tour groups, the traffic on Route 29; all the slurring Marina bros and escaped housewives, cheeks fat from bad fillers. Julia’s first choice had been Indonesia—not Kuta or Seminyak, but rather a private resort in Borobudur. Her boss, Pierre Roy, the CEO and founder of the social media and internet giant Tangerine, had done something similar, flying all his guests, Julia included, on his 767 to the Caribbean. She’d already asked to borrow the plane, knowing Pierre would agree, but had then been informed that the wedding was not to take place overseas.

The wedding should be in California, Leo said. In California, more people would come.

 

 

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