Within the first few weeks I dated Mr. PNU, I learned he possesses the secret to disarming English majors—the power of memorized soliloquy. Not one or two, my husband has numerous Shakespearian monologues up his sleeve. The standards: Hamlet, Lady MacBeth, and Romeo. Also King Lear and Richard III. There may be more he's waiting to spring. Actually, I never know when he'll open his reserve and another searing passage will pour out, melting ground I previously believed was solid. It's a tricky superpower. The sort that keeps me guessing until I've given up on suspicion entirely, and then he dazzles me with yet more magic. Like the afternoon we came home from a poetry reading at LDS University of Choice and he started spouting Wallace Stevens. Or last week in the library of the Pie Tin, when I finally confronted the impending end of my baccalaureate, and he reminded me with Robert Frost that after 22 years of wandering along a road most would never dream to traverse—180 credits and three near completions of discarded majors—I'd discovered educational breadth that most can't touch.
And that decision, or lack of decisiveness, has made all the difference.
This is how the wisdom of 22 years of college education sounds: