On Saturday, my second to last day in Columbia, Mo., I joined my parents' friends at their Homecoming tailgate. It was magnificent - a reprise of every dinner group gathering that has taken place in their Northtown homes for the past twenty years. I saw some of the most familiar faces and received lots of good "mom hugs", which, since I moved to New York, have been in terribly short supply.



Between pulls of Bud Light Golden Wheat, I cheered on the starting lineup as they made the Tiger Walk, a favorite pregame tradition but one I never saw as a student at Mizzou.



I also caught up with one of my nearest and dearest friends KB. She looked terrific, had lots of hilarious stories to tell, and promised to come visit soon. I miss her (and her big black-and-gold-bleeding family) already.

I am going to confess a dirty little secret that most if not all runners keep close to the (illuminating safety) vest. I run for face time.

This motive becomes most obvious when I visit smaller towns, as I did last week. I wait till rush hour (which lasted all of twenty minutes) and set off on my six-miler, Jock Jams blaring, ponytail bouncing, and I pick the busiest thoroughfare or the one on which I expect to see the most acquaintances, and I run. Because I am so certain that friends and frenemies will drive past me and wave, the thought of slowing down never crosses my mind. I skip along Providence (in the college town) or Murphy (in the home town) or Hanley (in Saint Louis) or Warwick (in Newport News, V.A.) or Thames (in Newport, R.I.) or 206 (in Princeton, N.J.) or…or…or…

(The fact that I can rattle off street names without the aid of Google Maps should illustrate how seriously I take my social sprints.)

I remember the first three-mile route I plotted as a freshman in 2003; it took me past the best fraternities and my crush’s house not once but twice to maximize exposure. And on holidays at home old friends often bumped into me at the (only) bar, exclaiming, “I saw you running today!”, thus proving my oft-tested theory that jogging along main drags is akin to breezing through a cocktail party: wave, grin, bop on by.

Later, when you run into those same people at real cocktail parties, you immediately have something to talk about: how fast and fresh you looked skipping down the street, what an inspiration you are to non-runners, your latest marathon, blah blah, et cetera. And to you, of course, it’s old news. But to this person who last saw you in their rearview mirror, it’s miraculous that you’re even alive. And to show their appreciation for your athletic prowess, they might even buy your next gin and tonic.

It’s all a matter of timing and style. Don your classiest spandex. Hit the pavement by five pm, aim for the biggest grocery store in town, and you’re bound to see a friend’s mom or a former professor or the local chiropractor. Keep your back straight, your gait jaunty, and don’t forget to smile. Be social! Run for face time!

Since I no longer need to worry about accruing vacation days I booked a last-minute flight to Saint Louis and, last Thursday, flew west to visit friends, gain perspective, remember where I come from, pretend I'm still in college, et cetera. I stayed with my best friends BNB and, last night, ALH, whose home in Chesterfield overlooks the most outstanding grove of deciduous fauna.



Autumn in New York is the greatest, but to really appreciate the season one has to leave the City. I am so glad to be back in the Mid-best. (By Sunday, however, after a straight week of partying in the college town, I will surely be singing a different tune.)



This morning, after joining ALH in Forest Park for a pre-dawn fitness boot camp run by a local trainer, I was a serious mood to dress up. On top is a dress by H&M. My legs are covered in tights by Hue, and the shoes, sporting the old Saks Fifth Avenue label, were purchased at Beacon's Closet, a famous thrift and vintage store in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. (I had to bring a bite of the Big Apple with me.)

On Tuesday I joined Max Wastler of All Plaid Out at Brooks Brothers' Madison Avenue flagship to celebrate the launch of their capsule collaboration with Mad Men. The limited line of suits created by Emmy-winning series costume designer Janie Bryant, will be available through the end of the series' season.



Stepping off the elevator and into the label's second floor suit department was like stepping back in time. Tie clips and slick hair abounded, and the duds looked great (if a little safe, but that's fine with me. I have little need for fops and dandies and prefer my men traditional(ly dressed)).

For a much more informed analysis of the suits and the talent behind them, visit All Plaid Out.



My eye, however, was not on lapels and pinstripes but on the guests present - almost all the young gents who work at Sterling Cooper. Salvatore! Campbell! Oh my lands! Outfitted in Brooks' finest they seemed perfectly "in character", save for artfully mussed hair. Michael Gladis' beard and Vincent Kartheiser's hipster shag, for example, were quite post-modern (although my phone number exchange with Vincent so that I might set him up with a dear friend was decidedly more old-fashioned). Draper and Sterling must have been at a board meeting because I searched and could not find them. Undeterred I knocked back another dirty and shot some stick with Kinsey and the boys. This good girl has gone Mad.

We date the worst men. We meet former Bachelors in trendy restaurants. We spend nights in newly constructed wings of summer homes with men we have only just met. They have Sub-Zeros filled with Krug and car service. They tell us their names like we should already know them. They act surprised when we don't. They have club memberships. They're awful.

And then we date nice boys. We date boys we met on the internet (because we all have blogs and we all read one another's blogs and then talk about them over dinner and when we should be working). We date boys we meet in bars that serve discounted pints of Bud Light and Tecate in cans. We date boys from the super market and boys from the train, boys we meet at work and boys we meet while skateboarding along the river. We go on dates and then we grow bored, and so we stop returning their calls. But they exist. They are here in the city. And someday we'll love them if we haven't already given up and left.