The foundation of a good marriage: a shared love for high-fashion
Mr. Candy and I were not brought together in a “meet-cute.” We didn’t hop into the same New York cab in the pouring rain. Our hands didn’t brush reaching for the same latte on the Stabucks counter. In fact, Mr. Candy hates coffee. He hates the taste of it, the smell of it — if I give him a post-latte kiss, he’ll pull back and grimace, “Mmmm. Latte lips.” In the very same tone I would say, “Mmmm. Fruitcake. Again. Thanks, Aunt Betty.” But he will offer to go to Starbucks at 10 p.m. if I so much as mention I need a fix. Which is just one of many things that makes him so awesome.
When we met at a party that my roommates and I were hosting, both Mr. Candy and I had just moved to New York City after graduating from our respective colleges. I had recently broken up with my boyfriend of three years — a long time for a young lass such as myself — and was ready to sow my wild oats in the big city; Mr. Candy came to the party with his girlfriend, a sweet, lovely gal who sulked in the corner, nursing her apple-and-pear wine cooler, and rolled her eyes at our “immature” jokes.
I know. Can you believe it? A WINE COOLER. Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Our romantic destiny was sealed when I casually mentioned to my friends at the party that I thought Mr. Candy was cute. I’ve always had a thing for super-smart guys. Some chicks like bulging muscles. Me…? I tingled when I heard my future husband had graduated magna cum laude from Wharton’s undergraduate School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania, majoring in their two hardest concentrations. Plus, even more importantly, he shared my passion for copious amounts of alcohol. RAWR.
Yes, I said it: TINGLED.
Well, my friends decided it was their job — nay, their mission in life — to hook up Mr. Candy and me. Because that’s the kind of romantics they are. But mostly, because they despised his current girlfriend and figured I was a slightly less annoying option.
After a lot of giggling and conspiring and running back and forth between rooms, as only 21-year-olds would do, our friends somehow convinced The Evil Girlfriend to go home — without Mr. Candy — which allowed the two of us to bond over Jell-O shots and the fact that we both enjoyed Sammy Hagar with Van Halen. Meanwhile, The Evil Girlfriend returned to Mr. Candy’s apartment and, I kid you not, FOLDED HIS LAUNDRY.
Who knew Mr. Candy was such a playa? That dawg.
Six years later — including one year of dating, one year of living in sin, two years of me going to grad school in a different city and two years of Mr. Candy going to grad school (but always committed to each other) — we finally got hitched.
That was eight years ago today.
Many of my single friends ask me what our “secret” to happiness is. Friendship, of course, is high on the list. As is laughter. Two television sets. A willingness to “look the other way” whenever you find porn on your spouse’s computer. (Sorry you had to see that, Mr. Candy.) Whenever I become sentimental and ask my husband what he first noticed about me, he always gets starry-eyed and smiles: “Your boobs.” Then, when he notices the look on my face, he sputters: “I mean your eyes. YOUR EYES!”
So, yeah, I would also suggest low-cut tops.
After eight years of marriage, I can tell you exactly what Mr. Candy is thinking after reading this tribute (?) to us: “Wait — she DIDN’T marry me for my bulging muscles?”
Yes, honey, your bulging muscles also made me tingle. Just as you were attracted to my EYES.
Happy Anniversary, my muscly, brainy love.