There are some unusual things about our apartment. There are, of course, the separate beds. There are the matching blue Converse on our shoe rack (can you say twinsies?). And, the pièce de résistance, there's the bidet in our bathroom. It's not an American thing, a bidet, and it draws more controversy than if we had an original Jackson Pollock hanging on our bathroom wall. But I've come to discover that conversation about our bidet reveals less about me than it does the guest who comments upon it. And people's discomfort with it gets to the heart of why some struggle to love outside the lines of what’s familiar.
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