I’ve been with my partner for longer than I haven’t.
I’m 35 years old. So as quick math will tell you, I married the first person I fell for.
When we met, in high school, I wasn’t pursuing a husband who would smother my kids with kisses and boil orecchiette to al dente perfection—I just wanted to attend prom with a hot dude. He fit into a laundry list of cutie blonde crushes with gelled hair and frosted tips. At my uniformed Catholic high school, you had to brand your personal style through your beauty routine: Mine was M.A.C Lipglass Clear and flat-ironed hair; his was a Caesar haircut and two diamond piercings in his ears. His name was Dave. And he was DREAMY.
But when I started to fall for him, there was a part of me that loved the idea of locking someone in and being with them forever—even back then. I pictured beach holidays, chubby diapered babies…