The Downfalls of Marrying Up

As I write this, the psychology of it is all so clear to me. I think back to when I was an awkward teenager and trying to traverse the God awful world of adolescent dating. Thank the good baby Jesus that Facebook wasn’t a thing or else I would have gone off the dang deep end as far as posting self-indulgent highly filtered selfies went.

Once, a guy was dropping me off at my house, and when I leaned in for a kiss, he jumped back as if I had just put a piece of dynamite in his trousers. He then caught himself and the horrified look on his face, shot me the finger guns and jumped back into his enormous diesel truck and sped down my block and out of sight.

All-time high — feels real good to bring this memory back up 20 years later.

The next day I called my girlfriends and asked them why men (I thought the boys in my life were men, delusional I know) found me so repugnant.

My friend Valerie said, with no qualms at all, “Probably because you use words like repugnant.”

It was true. I was a little weirdo with a big vocabulary. I didn’t have that classically beautiful face to make up for my outlandish behaviour, and most guys found that, well, off-putting, to say the least.

So I spent many years learning how to deal with the very specific type of rejection one gets when considered the “odd” one of the friend group.

It all buffed out in the end because I somehow snagged me a man who, for some reason or another, found my awkwardness, endearing. That, or he knew that one day these sweaty tales I write of existential mayhem would eventually make it big — he’s still waiting for the royalties to start rolling in.

The thing is, after all these years, I still, in quiet moments, find myself feeling insecure.

You see, my husband is a solid 8 on that eerie scale that people use to rate the fuckability of a person. I don’t actually know if that’s what the scale is rating or if it’s simply how good looking and cool a person is. Maybe these two realms are the same thing in the grand scheme of the human-hotness scale. Either way, he’s up there.

He is tall, super smart, hilarious and can get thrown into pretty much any situation and within minutes feel at ease. Within a half-hour, he will be the most sought-out person in the room because of his witty commentary and how he makes people feel so damn good about themselves.

The guy is a real charmer, and both men and women fall for his glamours all of the time.

On the other hand, I am the socially awkward individual at the party that guests avoid because there is word going around that the girl in the unicorn onesie is telling people, in great detail, about her dog’s anal fissures.

What can I say? I get chatty when feeling uncomfortable. I have been told I’m a solid 5 on the human-hotness scale. Maybe a 6 1/2 in dim lighting.

My friends tell me that we’re the perfect couple. But the truth is that he’s the MVP in this mixed cocktail we call marriage. I’m what adds up to be that gag ice cube with the plastic fly in the middle to freak people out and cause them to nervously laugh until somebody pours them a new damn drink.

I’m not saying this to get pity or be ironically misanthropic.

I’ve gotten to a point in life when most of the time, I love who I am. This personality has gotten me far, and I think that I’m doing pretty well. I like to imagine that my husband sees all of this weirdness wrapped up into the hyper little bundle that is me, and somehow it’s the perfect mix of spunky and strange that really gets his motor revving.

However, sometimes flashbacks from a different life pop up. My insecurities begin to run amuck, like when those mean girls at the bar flirt with my husband literally right in front of me because they don’t think that the awkward short girl to the left of him could possibly be of any significance.

This happens more than I care to admit. And my knee jerk reaction the next day as I dolefully look in the bathroom mirror at my rounded face and thinning hair is to doll up and take about a million selfies and post them to my husband’s Facebook page.

Look at me! They will subliminally (but not really) shout, I can still be hot and sort of young.

I’m interesting looking. I know most of the time, I’m dead ass tired with bags under my eyes and a look of exhaustion that just won’t quit, but with this fancy filter on, I’m one hell of a MILF. Wait, do people still say MILF?

While trolling Facebook to see how many likes I’ve received on these self-indulgent face shots, I take a trip down memory lane.

In my mind, I’ve always told myself that over the past ten years, I’ve let myself go. I think I used to be hot, but after two kids and all the stress of being a damn adult, I stopped caring somewhere along the lines.

I pull up photos from yesteryear when Jamie and I first got together, and I am slapped in the face with a firm dose of reality. I am reminded about the many, many, many dates I went on only to be shunned at the drop off point. The dude making some sort of half-assed excuse as to why he had to get home.

“Um, I totally forgot. I have to wash my hair tonight.”

Because what is revealed in these pictures from so long ago is the truth that I’ve always known. I’ve never actually been the best looking gal. I’ve always been a bit better on the page than in real life.

As I browse the pictures from 2008 while I was young and pregnant with our first child, I look at the way Jamie smiles. He was laughing at something I had just said, and it’s clear that he only has eyes for me.

Author’s photo

As I said, I’ve come to terms with my appearance. I like me just fine. But sometimes I do worry that I’ve married up and one day my husband, that oblivious dummy, will catch on to this enormous secret— that he’s probably too good for me.

But then I notice the way he kisses my forehead and whispers he loves me when he gets home from a nightshift. I’ll be half asleep, drooling, double chins all over the place, and perplexedly, he still makes time to shower me with attention.

When it comes down to it, I think what really matters is that we love ourselves. That we can poke fun at our shortcomings, but at the end of the day, look our ugly mugs in the eye and say, “You know what, you’re one badass boss bitch.” For the record, this is my morning mantra.

Some people have inferred that I married up.

It’s an outdated sentiment, to be sure, but it can be a gut punch nevertheless. However, when I sit down and really think about it, I realize that it’s a statement that says more about the speaker than their subject.

Maybe I did marry up. Perhaps I’m so sneaky and cunning that I somehow managed to trick Jamie into putting a ring on it. In that case, I feel like people should be congratulating me rather than shunning me. That takes some real gumption, y’all.

Either way, after ten years, the guy still looks at me with those eyes that say, “You are one crazy chick, and that is why I love you so much.” And I’d take that look over lust any day of the week.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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