"And that's without going mad on the wine," I find myself qualifying, to show that I too understand the inherent insanity of paying £300+ for a meal-for-two.
This is a historic moment, and I, too, understand the desire to reach a deal.
But I, too, understand the joy of riding slowly and stylishly.
What I have failed to notice in my headlong march down my imaginary hallway is that my need to take action and get this situation under control is fueled by exactly the same fear that I dismissed in my son: I, too, understand on some level that it can happen again.
(I, too, can understand the importance of repetition when I've just staggered out of bed with only a vague idea of what day it is).
I am not embarrassed to admit that this, more or less, is how I too have always understood him.
At first I too didn't understand why a 29-year-old would choose to leave this world, but then I read and learned and grieved for her.
Like Hollibaugh, I, too, wanted to better understand my hope and longing.
"I don't understand the question," I said, although I understood it all too clearly and a river of outrage ran through me.
I understand because I too am a parent.
I talked, too, and understood the whole thing had more of an impact than I'd thought.
