My sweetheart eats slowly.
Don’t get me wrong, I love to eat with him. And maybe it’s only slowly to me. Maybe I eat fast. However you slice it, I’m usually done first which leaves me both feeling like a pig and stuck watching him finish while I am in the post-meal depression that occurs anytime there is more than a few hours until my next chance to eat.
On the contrary, as I was reminded last night, my brother I eats like me. He talks like me, rants like me, snarks like me, and dances like me (much to his dismay).
Most of the time we thrive among those who complement us, who fill in the valleys of our faults, who know the things we never learned and teach us to be something other than the most extreme versions of ourselves.
But sometimes on a rainy evening in the fall, it’s nice to be with someone who knows where you come from and why you eat the way you do and maybe even most of the meals you’ve ever eaten. I felt perfectly normal whether I am – we are – or not.
