Glynnis MacNicol’s new book presents itself as the antidote to marriage-plot-driven work. “If a story doesn’t end with marriage or a child,” asks the front-flap copy, “then what?” This is a too-simple formulation for MacNicol’s memoir, though. Yes, she watches as her friends from wild nights past settle into domestic torpor in Brooklyn’s less accessible reaches. But it is also a book about what David Brooks once called the odyssey years, that drawn-out phase of finding oneself that stretches far into adulthood—and what happens when those years butt up against one’s parents’ twilight years. (And in MacNicol’s case, her mother’s Parkinson’s disease.) It’s also way less serious and heady than this makes it sound and just a really fun read. I spoke with MacNicol about the process of writing the book and why furs are the best defense against a wintertime bike commute.

There’s a lot of discussion of lipstick and furs in this book. First, how many fur coats do you own? But more seriously, how do you think about the relationship between looking good and feeling crummy? Or looking good and feeling good?

A friend who read an earlier draft also remarked on the repeated appearance of silk pajamas! I don’t think I was conscious of mentioning any of it, but apparently they come up a lot. I own a number of vintage fur coats, some inherited (fur was a real investment for people before it became mass produced, and the names of the original owners are often embroidered into the lining, which I love). But red lipstick is my real weakness. I had 23 at last count. There were a lot of lengthy discussions with Simon & Schuster about getting the color right on the cover. They nailed the final version, but the color on my galleys was so alarming to me I painted over a bunch with Chanel nail polish (Coquelicot) before I sent them to people. I think the connection between all three of these so-called fashion obsessions is that I like a bit of glamour (The Thin Man’s Nora Charles is one of my great fashion loves), however I also ride my bike or walk nearly everywhere, so whatever I wear needs to be easy and functional. I own two pairs of heels, both more than a decade old, because they’ve received so little wear. I also own quite a few caftans for this very reason . . . comfort first always. And an excessive amount of Dieppa Restrepo flats, which stand up to multiple resolings.

I’ve loved clothing, vintage in particular, since I was young and always considered the act of dressing to simply be one more way to express yourself to the world. It’s a mode of expression I enjoy. And it’s often less about feeling good per se than feeling strong. Generally speaking, my outfits always align with how I’m feeling that day, and if they don’t, I’m aware of it and it throws me off. There is also a larger discussion to be had about the difference between style, which I think has very much to do with a person knowing herself well, and fashion, which is so often the experience of having the world tell you how they think you should look. The latter is frequently used to punish women who don’t fit certain expectations about how we think women should look and comport themselves, and I have very little interest in it. I think of Marlene Dietrich’s quote from this charming book she wrote called ABC, in which she came up with a word and definition for every letter: “Glamour: The which I would like to know the meaning of.” The meaning for me is that every woman should be enjoying herself, including not thinking about clothes at all if you don’t want to.