The economic crisis has made a housewife out of my husband. Once he wore crisp suits and attended glamorous industry functions; now he wears a gray hoodie with an old pair of jeans and considers walking to the post office an event. His underwear is visible through a rip in the crotch of his jeans that has become so large it has nearly severed the leg from the waistband; I was shocked when I found out he regularly walks along our main road in them. He also wears flip-flops and socks, wedging the thong deep in the fabric, making his feet look like they belong to a ninja, and loudly protests that going to the grocery store is not a “fashion show.” Keep reading »
Profile for Lisa Giglio
Three years ago, off the back of a bad relationship, I needed out of Southern California and decided to move to London for six months. I was looking forward to being single for the first time in five years and was relishing the chance to dance, date and drink in a massive, heaving city. I would kick up my heels in swanky clubs, live in a Tudor cottage and date a man who wore a bowler hat and carried an umbrella.
Three weeks later, I opened the front door to find my roommate’s brother, Mark, standing there with a bag in one hand, a bicycle in the other. He had just left his wife and three children and needed a place to stay.
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