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Lately I have found myself in a summer blanket on my old red sofa “power watching” Orange Is the New Black. While no one I know well has ever been to prison, the show’s story lines are so riveting and the characters so emotionally nuanced that I am always drawn into the episodes, almost magnetically. And, like many other fans, I am transported into that cloistered world of raw emotions, human frailties, and power plays.On occasion it crosses my mind that I too was once threatened with being locked up—by prosecutors involved in the investigation of 1998. (Oh, that pesky investigation.) At one point during intense negotiation, one of the lawyers defending me said, in confidence, “You better think carefully on this, Monica, or you’ll find yourself in an orange jumpsuit.”“Orange,” I remarked, “is not my color.” (Don’t ever let it be said I am without gallows humor.)Over a decade later (just the other day, in fact), I was Orange-bingeing, when along came Episode 11. (O.K., I’m a late adopter. Just getting through Season 1.) In it, there was a vulgar reference to my last name and DNA. I did what I usually do in these situations where the culture throws me a shard of my former self. After the cringing embarrassment, the whiff of shame, and the sense that I am no longer an agent running my own life, I shuddered, I got up off the sofa, and I turned it off.