If Men Talked About Their More Successful Wives the Way Women Talk About Their Incredibly Average Husbands

We matched on Hinge. He didn’t message me for two weeks, so obviously I was super intrigued. We started talking, and I found out he’s an accountant who failed high school algebra three times. He looked like a guy you might see at Publix buying Doritos and a 6-pack of Coors on a Tuesday night, which is personally my biggest turn on. He forgot his wallet on our first date to the local sports bar where his nickname is “17th Hottest Mike.” It’s been marital bliss ever since.

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We met at work. He was my boss, but it wasn’t a conflict of interest because he’s terrible at his job. He asked me out so many times it bordered on harassment, but I finally said yes because being pestered at my job all day is the way to my heart, and also I secretly thought the salsa stains on his white button-up were super cute. At every dinner party we go to, no matter the topic of conversations, he loudly proclaims that he doesn’t believe women should work in construction because they might injure their uterus. I can’t imagine my life without him.

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He didn’t own any socks that matched. Not one pair. This obviously made me wetter than the Yangtze. The sex was average at best, but his salary was also significantly lower than mine. He  had massive amounts of credit card debt for constantly betting on a three-legged horse named Lil’ Business. He liked to joke that he had the memory of a goldfish. He also had a pet goldfish, but it died two years ago and he just let it float in the tank for the first 8 months we were together. We got married in Vegas with no prenup.

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He was ugly. But not in the way where you see him and whisper to your friend, “Ew, that guy is so ugly.” It was more like, you look at him and whisper to your friend, “Is it the peach schnapps or is that guy kind of cute in an ugly way?” It’s definitely the peach schnapps, but I was too drunk on peach schnapps to notice. We have 7 children, each uglier than the last. I am still drunk on peach schnapps.

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His name is John.

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On our first date we got soup dumplings. He sucked all the soup out of the dumpling and then stacked the empty dumpling shells on the side of his plate. When he saw me gawking at them, he asked if I wanted to eat them. We bought a house together after two months and he is the love of my life.

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My husband is the dullest man on the planet. But not in a boring way. It’s more like, he never has anything to say, and when he does have something to say, it’s not interesting. I would never try to change him. He tells all his friends (Mom and Dad) that he’s the catch in our relationship while watching football on mute. I am so blessed.

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My first impression of him was that he was way, way out of my league. I’m the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, and he wrote a 300k space-opera novel that got 538 reads on LiveJournal, a fact that he reminds everyone of at every restaurant we go to. He finds his pickup truck more attractive than me and often ponders how one might have sex with a car. Hypothetically, of course. I am taking his last name and completely erasing my own identity.

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He knows me so well. For Valentine’s Day 15 years ago, he got me roses. So unique.