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We were twenty-one and twenty-two the year we wed, and
through the years we've been able to move through the many rooms
of this marriage, which primarily means my wife was strong and
forgiving while I finally matured. It takes forever in this country,
because we don't champion maturity. It, after all, is the enemy of the
marketplace, the economy. We make a point of celebrating want here,
elevating it to need, and every film, song, and book is intended to be
part of the ubiquitous machinery that sends us once again to the
store. I finally realized I was mature this year because I hadn't been
in a store, other than the grocery, for fifteen months; that's the only
test we've got left, the only rite. You stay out of the mall long enough
to let the snow melt and you've made it. I don't want to get sidetracked
into that entire discussion about marketeers targeting everybody
age 18 to 34, because they are sure those people are immature,
and how now that group has become 18 to 49, because there's a real
good chance you can find the empty space in those folks too, nobody
quite finished, grown up, but that discussion-- maturity in America--
is absolutely related, shot through any discussion of sustained love.
It is not by mistake that all the great love songs of former eras take
easy reincarnation as advertisement soundtracks; a broken heart is
about need, and longing, well, that is always longing. What we should
be after is a way to turn longing into longevity. Is there a chance
of that? The reason I've been married this long and will be married
for the whole deal is-- yes, in fact partly because my wife Elaine is
utterly resourceful and large-hearted-- but the part of the credit I will
take is simply this: I never imagined anything else. I actively imagined
this. Even at times when I was right against the broken window of
rocky times, I never saw anything but this, a marriage, and all the
dear and trying vicissitudes of that terrific and muscular and vivid
and intimate word: longevity
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