I mean, if you’re the marrying sort. I am. It’s great to be married to a bookworm because there’s at least one thing you agree isn’t part of the rest of the house’s mess: books. Of course, you may read this article and ask yourself if these two are bookworms in the sense that they love literature or if they’re bookworms in the sense that they love stories that happen to be contained between covers, but regardless, they bonded over books. Stop being so cynical and judgmental, you. (I’m talking to my brain.)
There’s an episode of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel where a woman at a drag show gives Midge the name of a therapist and tells her they worked miracles for Sylvia Plath. When I realized my husband didn’t know who Sylvia Plath was, he patiently paused the television while I gave him the abridged version of her life story and read him “Daddy.” It didn’t matter to me that he wasn’t familiar with her work; it mattered that he was willing to learn and listen just as I have when he breaks out facts from his nonfiction on politics and military history. I love that seven years into our relationship, we’re still teaching one another things on a daily basis.