BY SARAH TEREZ ROSENBLUM
Sometimes the gay marriage debate overwhelms me. No, not the frustrating, frequently vitriolic one playing out in America, I mean the one in my head. Actually it’s more of a “me” marriage debate. Though it lies dormant for months, even years, all it takes is a bad PMS month (a therapist once called my PMS “PMO,” as in “Premenstrual Opportunity,” as in opportunity to take stock. I took her saying that as an opportunity to find a new therapist), a friend’s Facebook engagement photo album (did people always do this? Like, in the Dark Ages, did couples haul around a painter and pose in front of various whimsical locations, say with their sheep or near the gallows, or were they too busy dying of Bubonic Plague?) or a seriously good salmon (the kind you serve with fresh strawberries and spinach salad, none of that iceberg lettuce and stuffed chicken breast bullshit) and I’m back to mentally planning my wedding.
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