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Abstract

al sparks.</p><div id="1331" class="link-block"> <a href="https://www.datadriveninvestor.com/2020/06/10/virtual-reality-reaches-out-to-save-relationships/"> <div> <div> <h2>Virtual reality reaches out to save relationships | Data Driven Investor</h2> <div><h3>From the Grass is Not Always Greener file, it turns out that working from home is not idillic. Indeed, toiling apart…</h3></div> <div><p>www.datadriveninvestor.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*dAPZJEsEOQV2GTTx)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><p id="7969">A delicious lunch was served and we were told that our next meal would be dinner over an open fire at a campsite in the Canyon. Drifting leisurely down the Colorado was delightful. Maybe this trip could be the elixir to recapturing our mutual fascination.</p><p id="4555">Around sunset, we pulled into our campsite. Our boat landed on a little beach and was secured by a guide. Ladies were given a hand by a member of the crew as they disembarked. Only 2 of the men accepted assistance.</p><p id="219d">Darkness descended as the campfire ascended; crackling flames and the flowing Colorado over small rocks the only sounds. If a couple who once had it can’t catch the magic in a spot like this, they may have lost it forever.</p><p id="b431">I put my arms around my wife for the fist time in — longer than I’d like to think.</p><p id="48de">She responded with a tender kiss on my check.</p><p id="0b48">BRI — BRI!</p><p id="4fd3">Bri-Bri</p><p id="2d98">Another boat had landed on the small campsite beach. Because my wife and I were backlit by the fire the figure running toward us could see us but we couldn’t see him.</p><p i

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d="1d59">Closer. Bri — Bri.</p><p id="5c62">Unbelievably, it was Norman Riggan.</p><p id="cd74">Norman was a classmate of mine in 3rd grade at Oakhurst Grammar School back in New Jersey. I’ve had the pleasure of not seeing him for the past 67 years.</p><p id="0d96">After the phony ritualized greeting and hugging my wife and me from Norman and his wife, Norman took me aside.</p><p id="79c7">“Bri — Bri’, he said, “My prostate is as big as a bowling ball! Where can I take a piss?”</p><p id="8690">I escorted Norm to the porta-potty, while informing him that my name is Brian and nobody has called me Bri — Bri since — — I don’t know when.</p><p id="dbc2">I think he heard me but he didn’t react to that recent bit of information. He did, however, put his mouth up to my ear, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear and half whispered, “My wife is being a real bitch, can I hang with you guys tonight?”</p><p id="29ec">Almost, as if assuming a positive answer, he went on to ask, “How many times do you piss at night, average?”</p><p id="fe52">What do you say to this tornado of misery when not ten minutes ago you thought you’d reached sunshine and bliss?</p><p id="4fbb">“Well, Norm, I usually go two or three times a night,” I explained, struggling to regain my equilibrium.</p><p id="ab62">“Brian, my man,” he bloviated “How’d ya like to hit the head five or six time in a single night? That’s what I have to put up with!”</p><p id="1f1e">Years later when I think in retrospection of our reuniting trip to Arizona what really kept my wife and I married wasn’t the romantic trip on the boat down the Colorado, not a rekindled romance, not the even grandeur of the Grand Canyon. What I think more than anything, it was that night by the porta- potty when my wife told Norm to<b> GO FUCK HIMSELF!</b></p><h2 id="5088">Gain Access to Expert View — Subscribe to DDI Intel</h2></article></body>

I Realized I Still Loved My Wife By The Porta-Potty

A month later we boarded the boat and started our trip down the Colorado River. A journey that my wife and I hoped would rekindle some of the old magical sparks.

My wife and I were not in the best place. Kids graduated from our family’s homestead, college, and now entering the graduate school of marital relationships and life’s work. Both retired, we were were in the house, knocking around, with the hope of getting an occasional Skype from the kids. In each other’s way and on each other’s nerves. Our future seemed purposeless and somewhat bleak. We both felt we needed a change of scenery or we’d have to have the court decide it for us.

With the help of a couple of sessions of counseling we realized that separating our union would not only hurt our children (even at their relatively advanced age) but it would cause more trouble for us than the freedom from each other would be worth.

What we needed — what we needed — what we needed — was a weeks trip down the Colorado River — into the Grand Canyon. Put the romance back in our lives.

I had my travel agent make the reservation to fly out to Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport from Philadelphia. We were to board a boat in Page, Arizona for a two day trip down the Colorado River into the beautiful Grand Canyon romantically bivouacking at a campsite along the river. We awaited our departure date with cautious enthusiasm.

A month later we boarded the boat and started our trip down the Colorado River. A journey that my wife and I hoped would rekindle some of the old magical sparks.

Virtual reality reaches out to save relationships | Data Driven Investor

From the Grass is Not Always Greener file, it turns out that working from home is not idillic. Indeed, toiling apart…

www.datadriveninvestor.com

A delicious lunch was served and we were told that our next meal would be dinner over an open fire at a campsite in the Canyon. Drifting leisurely down the Colorado was delightful. Maybe this trip could be the elixir to recapturing our mutual fascination.

Around sunset, we pulled into our campsite. Our boat landed on a little beach and was secured by a guide. Ladies were given a hand by a member of the crew as they disembarked. Only 2 of the men accepted assistance.

Darkness descended as the campfire ascended; crackling flames and the flowing Colorado over small rocks the only sounds. If a couple who once had it can’t catch the magic in a spot like this, they may have lost it forever.

I put my arms around my wife for the fist time in — longer than I’d like to think.

She responded with a tender kiss on my check.

BRI — BRI!

Bri-Bri

Another boat had landed on the small campsite beach. Because my wife and I were backlit by the fire the figure running toward us could see us but we couldn’t see him.

Closer. Bri — Bri.

Unbelievably, it was Norman Riggan.

Norman was a classmate of mine in 3rd grade at Oakhurst Grammar School back in New Jersey. I’ve had the pleasure of not seeing him for the past 67 years.

After the phony ritualized greeting and hugging my wife and me from Norman and his wife, Norman took me aside.

“Bri — Bri’, he said, “My prostate is as big as a bowling ball! Where can I take a piss?”

I escorted Norm to the porta-potty, while informing him that my name is Brian and nobody has called me Bri — Bri since — — I don’t know when.

I think he heard me but he didn’t react to that recent bit of information. He did, however, put his mouth up to my ear, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear and half whispered, “My wife is being a real bitch, can I hang with you guys tonight?”

Almost, as if assuming a positive answer, he went on to ask, “How many times do you piss at night, average?”

What do you say to this tornado of misery when not ten minutes ago you thought you’d reached sunshine and bliss?

“Well, Norm, I usually go two or three times a night,” I explained, struggling to regain my equilibrium.

“Brian, my man,” he bloviated “How’d ya like to hit the head five or six time in a single night? That’s what I have to put up with!”

Years later when I think in retrospection of our reuniting trip to Arizona what really kept my wife and I married wasn’t the romantic trip on the boat down the Colorado, not a rekindled romance, not the even grandeur of the Grand Canyon. What I think more than anything, it was that night by the porta- potty when my wife told Norm to GO FUCK HIMSELF!