That Boring Dork Might Be Your Husband

I met my husband four years ago today.

 

Just so you know, it was seriously the most horrible time ever. I was really depressed and stayed in bed til noon every day watching the sun pour through the shades. I couldn’t afford to get my roots done so my hair was a disgusting half-black, half-blonde mix. Also, a boy who I thought was the one had recently dumped me in Tompkins Square Park. My main weeknight activity was crying in the bathtub while listening to a Pema Chodron self-help CD. Anyway, during all this time a big huge dork messaged me on Facebook and asked me to get a coffee with him. I basically said, sure, why not. I told him to meet me at Mudd Cafe in the East Village, which was down the street from my apartment. It was a Thursday night. and I was so bored and annoyed that I wore a pajama t-shirt and old greasy jeans. The night before I had gone out with this guy who, on the surface, was very handsome and together, but let’s just say, when we went back to his apartment, it was pretty much an “American Psycho” type situation, so by the time the next night rolled around I was like, ‘I’m at my wit’s end here.” Anyway, I went in and got a tea and a few minutes later, this clean-shaven chicken farmer in a Patagonia shirt walked in. Long story short, at first, I thought he was a total loser but one thing led to another and two days later I was like “I will marry this man.” And I did. 

 

A lot has changed since then. Aside from an occasional lapse into existential misery, I am, for the most part, pretty upbeat. The chicken farmer is now my husband of 2-1/2 years and the father of my little nugget of sunshine baby daughter named Sunny. Not to mention he is brilliant, hilarious and a hundred million times sexier than Rupert Friend.  What is the point of this blog post anyway? Who knows. But the moral of the story is everything changes. And you just never know when, where, or why. – Molly Guy

 

Originally published April, 2013

Image: Marie Claire