Intimacy isn’t easy, it isn’t immediately gratifying, and most of the time it’s a bit squidgy around the edges. Moreover, intimacy is — call me a cynic — something that, given enough time, love, and effort, you can cultivate with just about anyone.
Apparently there are only a limited number of years in our twenties in which to lock someone in, and after that, we are doomed to a life of scraping the bottom of the barrel and being cripplingly jealous of our friends and sisters who were smarter than us and settled down.
Once in a while I find myself sitting across from a couple, and I can’t help but think they are space aliens.
I resisted “us.” “Us” was terrifying. “Us” isn’t casual, but it’s also not “serious.” It’s not something found in the dating textbook. It’s not something you can relate to your drinking buddy. “Us” is its own life you bring into the world.
Thank you for arguing with me. You taught me the correct way to disagree, as well as the incorrect way.
Do you know the idea of marriage makes me feel claustrophobic? Do you know that when I say “yes,” I want to be absolutely sure? Do you realize there’s no guarantee that will happen?
Fridays are full of possibility. Anything could happen. Sure, the weekend could be a letdown, it could turn out to be just another endless series of hours with nothing going on, when I can’t bring myself to work because it just seems too sad to do so.
The first step to having a summer worthy of the femme Fitzgerald is to have endless free time because you never know when you will need to make an appearance at a backyard soiree or skip town for a three-day bender.
Kiss them like it’s going to be hung on someone’s wall someday, as a reminder of what love can be like.
If you’re dating a writer and they don’t write about you — whether it’s good or bad — then they don’t love you. They just don’t.