One thing my spouse has--that I lack--is gracious forbearance.
We are arguing about Joe Biden.
"I love the guy," says my husband. "I think he's a great man."
"Oh? I think he is a bully who antagonized Anita Hill. Also, he was condescending to Elizabeth Warren. He wanted to help credit card companies trample all over normal Americans, by making it more difficult to declare bankruptcy. Warren fought with him, and Warren was right. Not only did Joe pick the wrong team, but he did it in a way that was high-handed, patronizing. I think he is sort of an asshole."
There is no way I understand the magnitude of Biden's achievement, and of course it's juvenile to pick a few rotten moments from an ambitious life, and then make sweeping generalizations. But my other half simply nods, and ponders the issue.
By contrast, I have no patience when Marc dares to say, "I'm just not wild about Whitney Houston."
"Excuse me? She is almost universally regarded as the greatest voice in the history of popular music. It's literally not possible to dislike Whitney Houston."
"Her stuff is just kind of....slow...and flowery...."
"Slow? Higher Love? So Emotional? I Wanna Dance With Somebody? How Will I Know? I do not--do not--know what you're talking about."
"Well, you have a point...."
This last sentence is a magical sentence--and it's one that I really, really struggle to generate (on my own). Perhaps this is why I am not a political consultant.
To having a bit more patience--on my upcoming 42nd birthday, and in my upcoming 43rd year.
P.S. I'm away for the next week! See you soon.
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