the thinly wrapped package

It's Not You, It's Your Books: Article on New York Times about dating and books.

I used to give boys I dated a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. It was successful, to some extent, though there was one boy who stared at me dumbly and said, "I can't read." (Or was it, I don't read? There was a romantic savior-aspect in the illiterate dating the literature-infatuated. Nonetheless, it didn't last.)

I gave Ryan a copy of The Bell Jar. This was an ultimate sort of test he passed--after all, it's more of a cultish classic with young women as opposed to befuddled young men. But he read it, claimed to like it, though I think the Ani Difranco mix tape won him over much more.

If I were to gaze at my husband's nightstand and judge him solely for its contents (significantly frightening dust bunnies, antiquated alarm clock, and usually an escape novel or two), we would not be together now.

I'm of the opinion that it probably doesn't entirely matter that tastes do not converge. I wish we could discuss a good film after watching it, but I do love his smile, I love the way we linger after dinner at the table and talk about things. I don't mind that he will read a poem and smile blankly afterwards.

He'll come with me to a Shakespeare Festival. On Saturday, he's attending a book release party with me. Good company. What more could a gal want?