Despite my occasional bouts of envy as a single woman, I understand that no one gets saved. Not the middle-aged friend whose life was an unfocussed mess until he met his wife, not the colleague who couldn’t make ends meet before her boyfriend proposed, nor the cynical college buddy who had long ago given up on love, until his neighbor made him the happiest he’s ever been. Beyond their euphoria, there’s the daily grind of life that tears into intimacy and hope. And yet, there I was, last night, weeping along with the rest of the world, as Manuel Gonzales, the first rescuer who 24 hours earlier had crammed into a capsule to be lowered into the Chilean mine, became our Superman, and the last hero to ascend from the belly of the earth.
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