In Lori Gottlieb's book "Marry him" it says: to get married, you need to lower the bar of requests. Marina Rovner is perplexed — for her, the word "husband" has nothing to do with high jump.
My first serious novel deserves a place in the annals of human stupidity. Of course, he was a handsome man with cubes on his stomach — but how else? Our acquaintance began with the fact that he deliberately tipped a glass of cognac on my lap. To be honest, the glass was a glass, and the cognac was a rootless muck, but what did it matter if our romance was piercing and bright?! To say good night to me, my lover would climb the fire escape to the fourth floor (which was quite safe, with a banister and landing) and, staining his jeans with cobwebs and whitewash (Oh, with what voluptuous ecstasy I washed them!), fall into my rapturous arms. We read poems to each other and, as Limonov put it, made love. The neighbors, tired of our erotic noise, pounded on the batteries, but, desperate, quickly quieted down. I was happy and constantly wanted to sleep.
A freelance artist, he lived from bread to vodka, lived from one of my scholarships to someone else's, cheated on me with art, and I cheated on him with all my friends, but how beautifully he courted! Roses bought with the last money (well, what about mine — roses do not smell worse from this), sudden trips "into the sunset", to the Crimea, shaking hands ("this is where our grandchildren will live with you, dear"). I cried with happiness. We even got into a fight once. After a year of romantic impulses, we broke up (he tried to kill himself twice, both times unsuccessfully), but for many months I honestly returned my debts to friends who wandered into the usual light. The debts were his, and so were my friends, but on the whole I got off lightly.
The only thing that surprises me now, twenty years later, is how could I ever get into such a... accident? It is clear that all of us in our youth Shine more with hormones than with intelligence, but not to the same extent! It turns out, to this. And by the way, this is one of the reasons why early passionate marriages collapse so easily: the entourage crumbles after the first contact with reality. And, what is funny — early marriages are broken about the same way of life that unites Mature marriages. At twenty, a petty — bourgeois trip to the store for a new striped sofa threatens to destroy the family idyll, and for a forty-year-old couple, such a trip is an additional chance to feel like a family and, perhaps, even an excuse for unscheduled sex.
An adult man who hysterically shakes his torso or car is a sad sight, because behind the theatrically bright scenery there is a theatrical web and emptiness. In General, if you are not a therapist and not the mother of this poor guy, rather run away. If a hero hasn't got even the most damned soul by the time he's forty, and is completely absorbed in himself, what kind of hero is he?
All this, if you think about it, goes against the living nature. Theoretically, the female is always supposed to react to the male himself. In practice, women change their preferences over the course of their lives, and they change quite dramatically. I, of course, judge by myself and by my friends, but the fact remains. Today, a handsome man with cubes on his stomach won't come within a mile of my skirt.
In short, the older I get, the less I like boys. I don't even like grown boys anymore. I'm bothered by three hundred pairs of shoes in a lone closet, mobile phones with two-headed eagles. You know Chelsea? I'll get some rum!» "not even boring. Shame on you! Maybe it's age, maybe it's a belated burst of wisdom teeth, but I don't look at a man anymore, wondering if I'd like to Wake up with him on passionately torn sheets. I wonder if I'd like to celebrate my eightieth birthday with him. Do you understand? And if I don't want to grow old with this man, I definitely won't end up in the same bed with him.
This greatly narrows the circle of favorites. Very, very much. Right down to a single person. And I know for a fact that he won't climb the fire escape, because, thank God, he's not an idiot. He understands that true romanticism is not a hundred roses, but dishes washed after dinner, and without bragging about how well I did and how I take care of you. Caring — she is generally a silent person. A good person is not seen or heard. He doesn't flood you with compliments and mimic sms messages-they don't cost anything. A good person is used to being responsible for actions, not for public intentions to commit them.
"But it's so boring! my friend's twenty — year-old daughter said. — Got married, had a child, took out a mortgage, went to the sea. Silent horror… Everything is so predictable! And it's important that he doesn't dress like a freak." I tried to pull the child away from the edge of the abyss, but she resisted. In twenty years, the girl will notice that while she was busy with pompous fools of all kinds (poor or rich, it doesn't matter), the boys she didn't notice — boring, predictable, reliable, not prone to cheap effects — turned into the most desirable and precious prey. But we don't marry them. Most often, good boys are not our husbands, but strangers. And even as mistresses, it is critically difficult to get to them-they do not need mistresses. Because good boys also want to celebrate their eightieth anniversary not with the elderly heroine of a bad novel (from the category "you have a girl, and she has worlds inside!"). The heroines of novels do not cook, and good people are pleased when they are fed at home (at least once a week). They want to find a loved one once and for all, so that they do not hesitate to grow old next to them. Perhaps this is the only reason to start a relationship? Plus, of course, a striped sofa.
The world has changed. What was considered a Vice 10 years ago is now a sign of quality. And vice versa.
Too many things a man has in his wardrobe, too rich a collection of silk socks, too pink trousers, white sneakers — certain professions and social spheres require that he dress fashionably, sometimes very fashionably. They demand so much that it's hard to tell a gay man from a non-gay man by his clothes. And it's actually very easy to distinguish — gays pay attention to attractive men, heterosexuals look after girls with beautiful bare legs (especially when they drink).
Homosexual experience. If a man in a bar watches a woman's naked legs pass by, then his experience doesn't count. With the same success it is possible to reject someone who once slept with a prostitute, Smoking, jumped with a parachute. In your biography, too, there are many interesting pages, which, by the way, do not have to tell your husband. It's not like we're in an American movie, where omissions about the past are grounds for divorce.
Internationality. This used to be an obstacle, but things are changing very quickly. In Hong Kong, for example, almost all residents are half English and half Chinese. Even the races will soon be gone, but the social and professional circles will always be there. Stick to your own!
Different political positions. This is actually a problem, but if you and he are able to make light jokes about a topic that is fraught with murder, you can ignore it.
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