All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter

I’ve been talking to a close friend of mine who has been married for a long time about her troubled marriage. I’ve inquired discreetly about what the major stumbling block seems to be.


“Not really.”


“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Is your husband gay?”

“He doesn’t have interior decorating skills, so that’s unlikely.”

“He read the Fifty Shades of Gray trilogy and liked it better than you did?”

“Not possible. No one liked that smut better than I did.”


“Perhaps, but that’s not the global killer.”

They say opposites attract. I read someplace, and I can’t remember where, that what initially attracts you to another person often times becomes the trait that ultimately repels you. If you asked me about my first husband’s finest traits, in the beginning I would have said, “He’s sensitive.” Fast forward thirteen years and my response was, “He’s SO SENSITIVE!”

“So what is the global killer?”

“Fucking GLITTER.”


“Yes! He hates it and I’d like to line the kitchen tiles with it. Glitter is my favorite fucking color. I like grass and he fears grass stains. I’m always late and he is always early. I like to travel and he worries about the luggage getting lost.”

I fear her marriage is doomed. You can’t pair a glitterphobe with a glitterphile and expect things to work out. You either embrace the sparkle or lament the mess. There is no middle ground here.

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