Yesterday at work I was chatting with Natalie, who had gotten a manicure/pedicure the previous day. They did her nails and toenails at the same time, which was apparently not relaxing and took some maneuvering to prevent her trashy magazine from sliding off her lap into the foot tub. I mentioned that I've never gotten a mani or pedi and everyone in the photo department was shocked. I explained that a fear of getting someone else's flesh-eating fungus kept me away, but also that I don't really like polish on my nails. I've painted my nails and toenails maybe 5 times in the last 5 years or so.

"Are you granola?" Natalie asked. (She's one of my favorite people in the office by far, by the way.)

I'd never been asked that before, having grown up with people who wear hemp chokers and eat carob brownies. So I eloquently said, "Um, I don't know."

"Well where did you grow up?"

Only the biggest hippie reserve on the planet: "Eugene, Oregon." (Side note: When I was flipping through old Self issues, I came across an article about loving your naked body, and they included quotes from readers about what they'd do if they loved their naked bodies. One was from a Eugenean who talked about how women walk around topless in the city. Represent!)

Here Rebecca, the photo intern, joined in. "Do you own a pair of Tevas?" As if Tevas are the deciding factor of granola-ness.

"Of course I do. I practically grew up on the river."

"You're definitely granola," they concurred. Guilty as charged.