You’re still a hot ticket, I tell myself. It’s a Friday night in February. I’m at home wearing stretchy pants and fuzzy slippers. I don’t care about seeing and being seen downtown in happening trendy spots. I don’t care about that wonderful classical concert I ought to be attending....
It’s almost as unsettling as having a kid barge in on an intimate moment. There we are, lying in a quiet darkened room, seeking transcendence and peace. It’s the end of an hour-long yoga session. The instructor has worked us hard. We have earned our final reward, five minutes...
I love those subtle social hints long-term partners are magically able to telegraph – when I’m at a party, for instance, happily schmoozing, and Husband suddenly appears at my side holding my coat, wearing his own, and jingling the car keys. I’m pretty astute. I usually pick right up...
I do that sometimes. It’s a way to stay in touch. And email just floats off into the ether like they did, so who knows? It doesn’t feel any more futile than anything else I do. I wrote to my long-dead aunt’s former ex-husband awhile ago. He’s dead too,...
“That dimple on the inside of your wrist?” says Sister Mary Herman. “It’s a scar from Jesus’ crucifixion. That’s where the nails were hammered through. His agony was so great that you bear the mark of it. Remember his pain and your sin every time you move your hand.”...