Tell us about an incident that, with hindsight, you've completely reinterpreted.

At the time (maybe when you were young, innocent, and naive), it seemed like a pretty straightforward situation or interaction.

Much, much later, when you were older, wiser, perhaps a bit more cynical, you thought of it again, and—wow! something else was going on, all right. You didn’t see it at the time, but now you do.

Question: What was the situation, and what was the real story that you were too inexperienced to see?

For example: When I was 19 and a temporary dropout from college, I went for a job interview with a music publisher on the third floor of an old building in downtown Boston. There were shops and offices on the first floor, and on the second floor was a fur salon. A gleaming shopfront displayed mannequins enrobed in sumptuous lengths of costly furs such as I had never seen before except in pictures.

I climbed on up to the third floor and a rather dark, deserted-looking office space where my prospective employer greeted me himself.

The publisher, a thirtyish man with pale, thinning hair and a weary face, asked me predictable questions about my qualifications as a proofreader of sheet music. I thought it was going fairly well. He kept me longer than I expected.

As my interview was ending, the fur salon owner stopped in to chat with my prospective employer, who introduced him as his neighbor. The man then turned to me and asked me if I had ever worn a sable or mink. Of course I had not. He invited me to come downstairs with him when we were through and try on some fur coats just to see how they felt. I declined politely, thinking it did not seem quite appropriate, but he urged me and in fact practically insisted.

And my interviewer chimed in, saying things like every young woman ought to experience the sensation of wearing real furs, and anyway we were really through there. I did not want to seem rude in front of a man who might bring my long job search to an end.

So—I agreed. The salon owner, a stocky, middle-aged man with thick gray hair, escorted me downstairs.

He showed me into his salon and brought out a succession of unspeakably gorgeous wraps, which I tried on in front of a large triple mirror. I can’t deny it: the feeling was glorious. As I admired my reflection, I could imagine for a moment what it must be like to dress that way.

In due course I thanked him and took my leave.

It was decades later before I realized that I’d been interviewed for a very different position from that of publisher’s assistant.

I did not get the job.