The Cultural Exchange

My husband knows he married a Harry Potter enthusiast. And he, himself, long ago admitted that he once-upon-a-time had been something of a Star Trek fan. “When I was a kid,” he said with emphasis, as if awaiting judgment. But what judgment was I to pass? I was well into my twenties when I spent an entire semester solely on Harry Potter and class ideology. If the internet age has given anything to the western world, it’s the ability to admit to being a fan of Star Trek without fear of wedgies, swirlies or a state of general social outcast-ery.

Then it happened, by complete accident, that Husband had just begun reading the Harry Potter series when I noticed Star Trek: The Next Generation appeared on Netflix. Whether it was a new acquisition or whether it had been there all along, only to magically reveal itself when I truly needed it, I will never know. But alas: I started watching.

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The Anniversary of a Our First Not-a-Date

The first date Husband and I went on was not actually a date but rather more like a premise for a terrible Christmas movie.

It was two years ago. We were roommates at the time and still referred to one another, “My roommate, Gregg–” or “Me and Boy Roommate–.” We never quite reached the “My friend, Ashleigh–” phase.

The not-a-date was a couple of weeks before Christmas and took place on a Saturday. Neither of us can recall who first came up with the idea to go Christmas shopping downtown, but onwards we went, bundled up in toques and scarves and gloves. All afternoon, we wandered in and out of shops, cracking jokes in the comic book store, making rude gestures with nutcrackers in Cookworks, railing against the establishment outside department store windows, and lingering a bit too long in the bookstore. We didn’t buy a thing.

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A Logical Proposal

This week a colleague got engaged. We used to work side-by-side and were once upon a time better friends. I was there the night a few of us went out and she ran into an old friend who is now her fiance.

Her proposal was classically adorable: a bended knee at a Bruno Mars concert. As she told me the story, she was lost in that wonderful fog of elation: a rare moment without the stress of an overwhelming life decision.

Only a couple of times have I been asked how Gregg proposed. The truth is, Gregg didn’t propose. Neither did I. But if you had to blame someone, it was probably me.

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