“Damned if I know,” she replied. “But, lucky us. We get to choose from the following: (a) You’ve just had a great night of sex. (b) You need to have a great night of sex. (c) You’re afraid to have a great night of sex.”

Phoebe looked at me expectantly.

“Jeez,” I replied. “What’s sex?”

“Been that long, huh?” she asked. pen waving, “I’m going for ‘my apartment’s too small.’ ”

“Is that one of the choices?”

“No,” Phoebe answered. “But it should be. How about you?”

“I dunno. It sounds to me a lot like my childhood.”

“The drool?” Phoebe asked.

I shook my head. “The metaphor. Tiny box. Small spaces. Confining to the point of suffocation.”

She ran her finger down the page of the magazine. “Those don’t seem to be listed either.”

“OK. Try this. Invasion of the Body Snatchers with an all-Jewish, all-white-bread-eating, all-middle-class cast.”

“And people say I’m dramatic,” said Phoebe, tossing her head dramatically. “Sounds boring to me.”

“Hmmm,” I replied. “More like claustrophobic.”

In actuality, I had spent most of my childhood living outside the Wal-Mart box. My friend’s parents were married. Mine were divorced after a period of dissatisfaction best described as operatic.

My mom, younger sister, and I lived in a garden apartment — a step below the relative luxury of everyone else’s identical three-bedroom row house. And, in what constituted the deepest cut of all, in contrast to my taller, slimmer, straighter-haired classmates, my hair frizzed at the slightest hint of humidity and my body was too curvy to jam into the era’s de rigueur tube tops and hip-hugger jeans.

I had vague aspirations of finding validation in the guise of success, a goal that usually lent itself to an individual possessing a certain amount of stature. But netting out at a meager five-feet nothing, I had little of the inborn force and magnetism native to those of more impressive heights.

By the time I reached college, I realized that even if I had possessed the brains of a giant and the wisdom of the ages, they’d have had to be squeezed down and vacuum-packed to fit the dimensions of my tiny storage space. It was hard enough in a man’s world to be a woman of authority. As a petite woman with big boobs and a total inability to walk in heels, I feared I might never have a chance.

Three years after moving to New York City with my bachelor of arts degree, I was still unable to find my niche. Stints in retail and clothing design revealed a lack of talent and a shortage of patience (I had the drive, but I just couldn’t figure out the direction). They also paid barely enough to cover my meager expenses. At an age when most of my peers were sprinting down the fast track, I was metaphorically curled up in a fetal position, still unsure of what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had found, to my dismay, that life was still about adjusting — trying to make jobs, jeans, and boyfriends fit.

At least, I told myself — sucking thoughtfully on a lime — I had some company. Phoebe had dreams of becoming an actress, but she didn’t hesitate to concede that she’d be happy to settle for a rich, handsome doctor, should one become available to her. In order to pay the bills, we had indentured ourselves to a trendy dining establishment on the Upper East Side, where we earned our keep serving chopped salad and cheesecake to scotch-drinking, blue-haired socialites.

“Well,” Phoebe said, adding up her final score with resignation. “It looks like my Sexuality Index is lower than my income.”

“I very much doubt it.”

As if on cue, the bartender came over to ogle Phoebe and check our progress with the drinks. She feigned interest; his eyes left her face only long enough to salt the glasses.

“Why don’t you go after him?” Phoebe suggested, waving her lip-gloss wand in Kevin’s direction as he retreated to the tequila.

“As if,” I told her, reaching for another chip. It was not lost on me that if my vice were tobacco rather than salty snacks, I might have less trouble getting Kevin’s attention. But I had grown used to being overlooked — by bartenders, sales clerks, and taxi drivers — especially while in the company of taller, prettier companions. “Besides,” I added philosophically to my friend, “I have bigger things planned.”

Phoebe arched her perfectly shaped brows. “I dunno ... from what I hear there ain’t too many bigger than Kevin’s.”

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