how to catch a fish
or, how being selfish, cheap and stupid helped me reel in my wife
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Saturday was our 11th wedding anniversary (steel, for those wondering). In fact, it was the same setup as it was that wedding weekend in Toronto with Easter on Sunday. While this is not the same as our marriage anniversary, which was back in March, as an unintentional homage to our marriage celebration dinner at Arby’s, we celebrated as one does during COVID: takeout from Five Guys Burgers and Fries. (Side note: who knew a family of four could clear 80 bucks on dinner there? And my car still smells like their old potato french fries. I don’t expect that to change anytime soon. I have no regrets). But I digress, as this is not the story of our wedding day or our marriage day. This is the story about how I met my wife by being selfish, cheap and stupid.
Now, when I mentioned to my wife what I was going to write about this week, she was understandably taken aback. But just as I asked her to, please, bear with me, before explaining the arc of the story, trust me: it will all make sense in the end.
Growing up, I always thought (dreamed?) that I would be married, with kids, by the time I was thirty. I didn’t want to be an old dad. Not that there's anything wrong with it - it just wasn’t for me. Yet back in the late aughts (funnily enough, also a time when its homophone showed up quite a bit as in, I ought to eat right, I ought to exercise more, I ought to cook dinner, but I’m too busy, that I spoke about two weeks ago), I was continuing apace towards a fatherless bachelorhood come thirty.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. I put myself out there. I brought Atlas Shrugged to the same coffee shop in Park Slope every Sunday for months during my libertarian phase hoping to snag Ayn Rand1 reincarnated but instead got the stink eye from folks (recall, it was Park Slope - know your audience, J). I thought that maybe finding someone older would be a better fit - I dated a mom and along the way broke a cardinal rule: I also dated a smoker (that old anti-smoking bit that it’s like kissing an ashtray is close but no cigar2). I dated a woman who lived three hours away, but was taller than me (and I’m not short)3. Thinking I needed to change it up and find someone younger, I dated a college student (no aside this time). I dated a former Olympic-qualifying athlete, I dated intelligence, I dated lack thereof (in good company as you’ll soon see. There’s my aside). I dated a Parrothead, a Deadhead but (sadly) not a Phishhead. I dated friends of friends, and friends of those friends.
If Einstein’s definition of insanity4 is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, I was throwing pasta against the wall hoping that something would stick (apologies for the mixed aphorisms). And it dawned on me: How was I supposed to find the woman I wanted to marry if I didn’t know what I wanted?
Then I saw the title of another Ayn Rand book on my shelf, the Virtue of Selfishness5. From what I read (from the book cover), it means that there is virtue in being selfish. And I realized that was a huge part of my problem. I was dating like a beggar who couldn’t be choosy and kept settling for less than I was worth. It wasn’t that the women I had been dating were bad individuals - they just weren’t right for me. I needed to decide what was important to me.
So, it was time for me to be selfish. I took a look at who I was dating at the time and realized that while she had many redeeming qualities, I wasn’t going to cash in my ticket with her. So, I cut bait (told you it was about fishing). But being selfish on its own wasn’t enough. I needed a catalyst.
That’s when I got cheap (by this point, you can probably understand my wife’s objections to me writing this, but again, bear with me). I still had a month left on my eHarmony membership and as someone who spent way too much money on things like brunch, beats and books, I wasn’t going to let that $39.99 go to waste. I hopped back on eHarmony and started going through the match-making paces with a few women, this time with an eye on what mattered to me in a partner.
For those not familiar with eHarmony, there was a process to go through, or at least there was at the time. You shared a few things about you with a questionnaire, asked some open ended questions, and then were able to chat back and forth before sharing emails and phone numbers if interested. Normally the process takes a few days. But not with us. It turned out one of my matches had cancelled her membership two days prior and her subscription was ending shortly. By the end of the evening’s exchanges, my match messaged saying “here’s my number, go big or go home”. So I called. I got her voicemail.
Hi Jes. This is Jeremy. I guess I’m going big, or going home.
She called me back and we talked. Extensively. We made plans to grab drinks the next day. We’d meet at Butterfield 8, a bar that I always walked past on my way to the train that looked moderately busy. Plus it was about halfway between where I worked and she taught (my first brush with stupidity: thinking that she’d be coming right from school at 7pm and not her apartment on the Upper East Side. Silly).
After stopping by a bodega to grab a single rose, I proceeded to the bar. Upon opening the doors, a cacophony of female voices hit me like a Karen of pillows6. Shit. Ladies’ Night. I had her meet me at a bar where it was Ladies’ Night. My second stupid act. How did I let this happen? It was then that I looked to my right and noticed her standing. To say she was stunning is an understatement. I was taken. But it was still Ladies’ Night. There were no seats to be had. There was no quiet chatter and music in the background over which to converse. So I had to think fast. I called an audible.
You must be Jes. And it appears that I’m a moron as it’s clear that it’s Ladies’ Night. Let’s try someplace else. I know a nice hotel bar down the street.
We walked into the Hotel Metro bar and found two seats at the bar. It wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t empty either, so we grabbed two drinks: Stoli Pear and Soda for her; Brooklyn Lager7 on draft for me. For more than four hours, we sat, we talked, we laughed, we ordered another round or two (or three). We connected immediately and intensely.
Knowing it was getting late and that we both had to work the next morning, we retired upstairs to a hotel room. Just kidding. We walked down to 7th Avenue where I knew I could hail a cab for Jes going uptown (remember, this was the pre-Uber aughts). As her taxi pulled to a stop, I leaned in for a hug to say goodbye. We parted, but as she went to enter the cab, she came back, gave me a kiss and said:
Go big or go home, right?
Still weak in the knees with a smile from ear to ear as her cab pulled away, I texted a friend:
Mark my words. I’m going to marry her.
And a little over a year later - eleven years ago this past Saturday - I did just that. And while it took me some time to realize, I now know I need to be selfless, generous and smart to keep our relationship strong. But more on that later.
We all have a story. Taking the above at face value, we’d love to hear about how you met your partner. Taking the above for its underlying message, tell us how did zigging when you previously zagged landed you the ultimate prize. We’d love to hear your story.
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Full disclosure, I first encountered Ayn Rand when I dated an architect who considered The Fountainhead required reading. Ah, (misguided) youth.
Apologies. This is my one allotted dad joke.
When I knew she was about to break up with me, I sent her an email saying that the New York Mets, who had blown another lead, were like women:
Just when you think you think you have them figured out, they let you down.
To which she responded:
So about that…
I know it wasn’t him who said it, but never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
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Definition: a collective noun for an obscene amount of pillows. Used in a sentence: After my wife went to Crate & Barrel, there was a Karen of pillows on the couch that prevented anyone from sitting, so we sat on the floor.
I had decided I would only drink Brooklyn Lager the entire month as a way to limit my alcohol consumption. But more on my relationship with alcohol later.
My last fishing reference, I promise.
There is no finite allotment of dad jokes.
Loved every word!