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Sunday, Mar. 31, 2019
2:26 p.m.
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I drag my new husband to the museum of fine arts. In our uber on the way over, the driver asks us questions. Because it is polite, I also ask questions, one of them being: have you been to the museum before?

"Yeah in the 5th grade," he says, "then never again." Local.

Inside we find the Gender Bending Fashion exhibit, and I squeal.

We have to look harder for the Frida Kahlo section, but when we find it, finally, it is every bit as satisfying. I tell my husband, before he can read the plaques that say the same, that Frida painted her pain. She was in an accident that left her bedridden, and she took up painting as a means of therapy. My husband reads the plaques to confirm.

You know so many things, he says.

Only the things that matter.

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