I Married the Wrong Guy
He was sweet, sexy and financially stable, and I told myself we'd be great together. I was totally lying.
I have always chosen badly in love. I wanted the perfect guy, which
for me meant someone who would inspire me to become my wittiest,
funniest, most adventurous self; who would raise kids with me and stay
with me forever despite my nasty temper. Problem is, from college
onward, I dated one creative brooder after another—men who had no
interest in playing house and would sooner starve than procreate.
By the time I met the man I'll call Nick, I deeply doubted my ability
to find a guy who both satisfied my rather predictable physical
standards (tall, handsome, with strong hands and a deep voice) and could
make my dream of domestic bliss come true. But when a friend introduced
us at a party, I saw my perfect manly man, complete with adorably
mussed-up hair. When I heard he was single, my stomach did a flip-flop.
In our first months together, I had inklings that we had some serious
incompatibilities. I was a writer, interested in people and literary
gossip; Nick was a computer and science geek, fascinated by gadgets and
facts. I liked order, cleanliness, routine; he got parking tickets,
bounced checks and was always late. Plus, he was living with his mother.
But I didn't want to think about all that. Instead, I focused on
Nick's cuteness. He wasn't dark or moody like my previous boyfriends. He
made me feel protected; he had a good heart. I liked that he could fix
things and play guitar. And he was comfortable with commitment. Two
weeks after our first kiss, he called me his girlfriend; five months
later he moved in. Granted, he was desperate to get out of his mom's
house, but still. He cooked dinner and bought me ergonomic computer
equipment. When I felt sad, he comforted me.
For the most part, I kept my bad temper in check, but even when I did
lash out at him—for being late to meet me, for spilling beer on my
rug—Nick wasn't intimidated. He apologized but said, "Don't get so
worked up. You're making it worse." And then we'd have fun making up all
night.
I quickly decided Nick would make a fantastic husband. Now that I was
in my 30s, my desire for a family was all I could think about. About a
year after we met, I gave Nick an ultimatum: "If we're not going to
marry and have kids in the next two years, I can't stay with you." His
response was gentle: "I don't want to lose you, but I have other
priorities." I took a breath, feeling an icy river of fear rush through
me. "I understand," I said. "But I can't wait."
Flash forward two years: We are married with a baby. Nick largely
supports us while I care for our daughter. I have what I've always
wanted. I am miserable.
When Nick proposed to me a few weeks after my ultimatum, I asked what
changed his mind. "I'm a better man with you," he said. After
registering the corniness, I threw myself into his arms. It didn't occur
to me to wonder if I was a better woman with him. Now I knew: Not only
was I not better with Nick, I was my worst self—judgmental, anxious,
controlling.
All I saw was his inability to be witty and fun. I didn't enjoy being
with him in social situations. He didn't seem to know how to connect
with my friends, but he didn't have any of his own. At parties, Nick
waxed on like an overeager child about outer space or nanotechnology; I
watched people's eyes glaze over and berated him later for his
conversational tone deafness.
We clashed constantly. He was a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants
scrambler; I was a micromanager. When our baby had health issues, my
panic drove him crazy; his yelling at me to calm down made me want to
stab him in the eyes. Exhausted by our battles, we talked about couples
therapy, but we both feared that it would just confirm what we already
knew—we didn't fit.
Then one evening, shortly after I found out I was pregnant for the
second time, I heard Nick's phone beep. Something compelled me to look
at it, and I found a short thread of texts between him and a woman. Nick
had texted her back: "I already miss you." In a shocked trance, I saw
my fingers tap out a message: "Whoever you are, stay away from my
husband."
When I confronted Nick, the story came out: They'd had a few drinks,
dinner; they'd kissed once, nothing more. He wasn't in love with her,
had meant to break it off. "Please try to understand," Nick said. "She
respected me. She was impressed by me. Maybe I'm weak, but I need that."
Somehow, I did understand. On our wedding day, we'd vowed to honor
each other. Nick wasn't the only one who went back on that vow. I judged
everything about him, from his taste in music to the neighborhood where
he grew up; I rolled my eyes when he talked; I always let him know if
he'd done something wrong. No wonder he'd looked elsewhere for
validation. Despite all that, Nick never judged me personally. He didn't
tell me I looked dumpy or that I shouldn't eat that third cookie, even
though I wore pajamas at home during the day and hadn't exercised in
years.
I watched as he composed an email telling the woman that it, whatever it
was, was over. We fell into each other's arms, seeking comfort and
redemption. After that, for a while, we did OK. I tried to stay in the
present, getting our home ready for a new baby and enjoying Nick's
renewed efforts to be an attentive, loving husband.
And then, the day after our second child was born, we got into a
fight at the hospital. He wanted to get home and was driving me nuts as
he bounced around packing things up, when all I wanted was to nurse my
son. Downstairs, I watched Nick get into a shouting match with the valet
who wanted to charge him $10 for parking our car. All I could think
was, Why am I married to this guy? As we got into the car, desolation
washed over me.
But as I gazed at my tiny sleeping son, so vulnerable and dependent, I
realized that, unlike him, I wasn't helpless. I could either keep
acting like a spoiled child, demanding that Nick be perfect, or I could
be a grown-up. I knew that intact and miserable was no better than
separate, and maybe worse. But I needed to try. And so, I made the most
important choice of my life: to fully commit to my marriage. Not to an
ideal of love—but to real, complicated love, where things are rarely
easy and compromises are constant.
I slowly began to behave differently, to act like the person I wanted
to be. It wasn't easy at first, and it still isn't, but that's part of
the challenge of being married. The more I laugh, the funnier Nick is.
The more I show my appreciation, the more appreciative of me he becomes.
Having things my way, I've come to understand, is less important than
having someone real to love. I've given up my fantasy of a perfect
husband for the reality of a stable family, and, to my surprise, I'm
happy—at least most of the time.
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