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I’ve had holes in my jeans before, but I’ve never had a two-inch gash where my crotch goes. I’m splitting my pants right down the middle, like a vivisected turkey on Thanksgiving. I’m losing my tenuous grip on physical attractiveness. I see my hair thinning, my posture worsening and my bank account dwindling.
Mahler acts as a 120-piece orchestral therapist, allowing you to explore your melancholy, to know it, and ultimately to fold it into your own personal account of the human condition. They say Mozart makes babies smarter, but no one trains the emotional intelligence like Gustav Mahler.
So, you’re in your 30s, you’re a straight woman, and you’re single. You’re out there looking for a nice, mature man, one who longs to put his hand on your knee under the bar on Saturday night and lay his head in your lap to watch HBO dramas on Sunday while soup bubbles on the stove. One who has a job and a healthy relationship with his mother. One with a cute butt.