First Date Formula from an Armchair Anthropologist
Ann walked him the ten minutes to his apartment in the opposite direction of hers—chivalry isn’t dead, folks.
Ann walked him the ten minutes to his apartment in the opposite direction of hers—chivalry isn’t dead, folks.
Lay your stone at the Cruz de Ferro next to the stone with someone’s Instagram handle.
For thousands living abroad or in Spain, wondering and waiting, the years dragged on and on.
“And then of course you wonder if taking your wife to this show as the right thing to do, or if maybe you would have been better off going to dinner and having a conversation, even a monologue, as I suppose this has become.”
And I realized these are the first things: not medals or adventures, but the cinch of laces around a foot and reliable slide of mud and bitter perfume of sweat rising like smoke off shoulders.
Do you understand?
I cock my head; wait, again?
Elusive fluency.
My fondness for toilets began in first grade when I staged a protest in the Jackson Elementary School girls’ bathroom. I objected to recess, of all things.
I was always driven by the idea of the adventure and seeing new and unique places—after all, Carmen Sandiego wasn’t going to find herself—and sought out all opportunities I could find.
Much of the time this is not a problem. But with growing frequency, the nauseating and, often, gross social gracelessness is a deliberate act of rebellion and selfishness.