Why I Married Someone Who Wasn’t My Type
I Wasn’t Attracted To My Husband But I Married Him Anyway.
He wasn’t quite my typical type. Since we worked together, he regularly extended cordial invitations for me to join him in a variety of social and business settings. However, I assured my friends that he was not what I was searching for anytime they suggested he might have love possibilities.
I had always been drawn to charming older men who could captivate any gathering thanks to my previous partnerships. As you may imagine, I wasn’t always successful with that tactic. Then there was Jeremy, who was just a coworker and a reporter at our newspaper who was almost three years my junior.
In contrast to my past companions, who were thrill-seekers who frequently opted for exciting adventures like taking on difficult ski runs, Jeremy was calm and collected.
I Wasn’t Attracted To My Husband In The Way I Was My Former Partners.
Jeremy was a conscientious objector who had spent the years of the Vietnam War teaching emotionally disturbed children. He was a theater enthusiast and wore glasses resting on his nose. His unrelenting patience really stood out about him; no matter how many times I declined his invitations, he never took it personally and kept asking.
We frequently found ourselves going to performances together because we were required to attend the same shows as cultural news reporters. Hunger would drive us to supper after the play, when our talks grew increasingly intimate.
My friends began to ask questions as the months went by, such as, “So, you’re seeing Jeremy again? “Are you certain there’s nothing in the works?” “Not at all,” I refused to say. “He’s just not my type!”
And, If Truth Be Told, I Was Pretty Sure I Wasn’t My Husband’s Type, Either.
I was tall, blonde, gregarious, and very much a WASP; his ex-wife was small, dark-haired, introverted, and Jewish. We certainly appeared to be an odd couple. When we first met, I was 36, and before long, I would turn 37.
My biological clock was loudly ringing, and Jeremy’s face would light up with genuine excitement every time we passed a stroller- pushing infant or saw a toddler at a restaurant. His dream of having a family had been a source of conflict in his first marriage.
“Do you want kids?” he inquired one late night as we waited for our burgers at a 24-hour cafe. I said, “I would have loved to, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that it might not happen.” His sympathetic grin made my eyes well up with tears, even though my acceptance felt heavy. That was just the kind, compassionate Jeremy.
I had begun therapy about this time, mostly to help me understand why my romantic decisions had been so foolish. I used to frequently arrive at work after teary sessions with smudged mascara.
I came teary-eyed and in a state of disarray one especially trying morning when Jeremy showed up at my desk out of the blue. It was evident that I wasn’t okay, so why didn’t he ask? He even called me later to see how I was doing and insisted that I go home and relax.
For me, that was the turning point. Then one day, Jeremy asked me to a movie theater that was a short distance from his home. Raising an eyebrow, my best friend at work cautioned me that he was probably just trying to entice me back to his apartment so he could get a pass.
