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Here’s a little Thanksgiving story for you. The boyfriend that I mentioned in the last post? Well, I brought him home with me for Thanksgiving dinner one year. My family and a couple other families had done Thanksgiving dinner together for at least 10 years at that point, and I think I may have been the first one to bring a boyfriend to dinner. Things were going fine, and the boyfriend was chatting before dinner with a couple of the dads in the group, who were college professors (my boyfriend at that point was still an associate, not tenured), and with my dad, who was a jazz musician (my boyfriend was a bass player). I should also mention that the boyfriend had been my college psych professor my senior year, though we didn’t start dating until about 6 months after I’d graduated. I’ll wait a moment while you process that little tidbit. Done? Okay, moving on. Everyone seemed to be playing nice. Then we sat down for dinner, and about half way through our meal, one of the other guys in the group, who was about a year older than I was (I was probably about 22, the boyfriend was 32 – yes, I know), cleared his throat and said loudly, “So, Mark, what are your intentions with our Emily?” I choked on my mouthful of sweet potatoes. Mark, paused, then said, “Well, based on our conversations so far, I’m either using her to get a tenure track position or get a gig with her dad’s band.” Well played, good sir.

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