How I Met My First Husband: Part 1
A bold claim investigated.
Dear Reader,
If you don’t know me yet, allow me to introduce myself: I’m Alexa. I’m a 33-year-old writer and marketer based loosely in Austin, Texas, where I wasn’t when I recently woke up and experienced my first existential crisis: a sudden onset awareness that it was time to move to New York City and find a husband. (In that order.)
Now that you’re up to speed, what you also need to know is that I’ve decided to start writing about it. The crisis. My crisis.
And today, as part of my commitment to that mission (finding a husband), I give you the story of how I met my first.
Husband.
How I met my first husband.
Here goes:
Seven years ago (wow), I was lying in bed with my back to a man I was calling my boyfriend at the time. My right arm was extended in front of me, holding up a Kindle, and I was quietly reading The Paradox of Choice by a smart, smart man named Dr. Barry Schwartz. Almost immediately, Dr. Schwartz proved his brilliance by giving his wife an honorable mention, calling her the best decision he’d ever made.
And the most important.
I thought, Huh. For a doctor of sociology who specializes in decision-making sciences to boldly claim that the most important decision you’ll ever make is the person you choose to marry, there must be some truth to it.
As any good reader would, I honed right the fuck in. Somewhere in that shoutout (or the sentences before or after—I remember the moment, not the details), there was a footnote pointing to another book: Why It’s Ok to Settle for Mr. Good Enough by Lori Gottlieb. Another bold claim.
I downloaded it that night and read it in record time. Ladies, if you’re in your twenties, thirties, or even forties and want practical advice on choosing a man (scientifically), read that book.
All the advice in it could’ve, would’ve, and should’ve convinced me to stay with the man I was lying in bed next to. (He was smart, kind, attractive, with a good family and a good job—all the things.) But instead, it woke me up to two truths:
My age (26 at the time).
My dwindling window to explore “high-quality” partners.
In other words, the takeaway was, Girl, you don’t have time to be comfortably ambivalent. He’s either it or he’s not.
And two hours into a painfully dull road trip from San Diego to Los Angeles, I’d made my decision: He’s not it.
So, who is?
That’s been the question ever since. Who will I choose, and how much am I willing to compromise? (Spoiler: That’s the moral of Lori Gottlieb’s book. Basically—he won’t be perfect, but if he’s good enough, marry him.)
So, how, when, and where did I meet my first husband?
It wasn’t a straightforward journey. First, there was the toxic ex (we always want to go back). Then, the unavailable architect (ugh, why, Alexa?). Then, a serially cheating comedian who publicly described me as the “Type-A basic safe girl” he dated to placate his conservative family. (Love a true crime podcast.)
Then came another comedian (maybe?), another artist (kind of?), and then…
…and then…
And then, it was him.
He in all his husband-glory, my man! My man! My man!
“Your doubles partner,” my friend said when I asked who Liam was. “Evan’s brother.”
“Evan’s brother?” I replied, surprised. “Is he also gay?”
My friend laughed. “No. Being gay isn’t genetic, Alexa.” A smirk crossed his face. “And no—he’s far from it. I actually think you’re going to fall in love with him.”
Another bold claim. One I was willing to investigate.
But the God’s honest truth was—I didn’t. Investigate, I mean. I heard my friend’s bold claim, and I pocketed it like a crumpled-up note with some juicy gossip. Normally, such a statement might send me down a rabbit hole of social media stalking. But… I didn’t. Honestly, I completely forgot about it.
So, come the morning of our match, I went about my usual business—hit a bakery, grabbed pastries for the group, got myself a cappuccino, and merrily rolled up to the courts with not a butterfly in my stomach.
And there he was.
In the middle of a rally with my friend on the tennis court.
That’s when I first laid eyes on him.
Him—my husband.
My first husband.
To be continued.