Matchmaking for Beginners
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Read between May 19 - May 24, 2018
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Maybe it’s like a death, and the minister and my father—and probably me—will all look at our watches and one of us will say, “Well, this is it. I’m calling it. Four thirty-four. Wedding’s not going to happen, folks.”
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I’ve made nice with trouble my whole life, and I’ve noticed that what happens is that problems just curl right up like declawed kittens and nestle at your feet and fall asleep. Later, you look down, and they’ve wandered off somewhere. You bid them a fond farewell and get back to what you wanted to do in the first place.
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He doesn’t get domestic life, the way you can be glad for such stupid, simple things. That you can bicker and fight your way through marriage, and then Thursday night meatloaf comes to save you.
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Late at night, after my parents have gone to bed, I find my way to the family room, the lived-in, comfortable space, where you don’t have to pretend about anything. There’s the same worn-out rag rug, the chipped bookshelves, and an old brown corduroy couch that hugs you when you sit down, like it’s so very glad to see you.
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They fuss and argue and kiss and somehow just keep plowing along through life, racking up grievances and then forgiving themselves and each other again and again. No one is going to stand up and say, “You know what? I can’t do this anymore.”