As we prepared for our wedding, Jake casually remarked, “Well, if it doesn’t work out, we can always get a divorce.” I nodded along, treating it like a light-hearted comment about the menu choices for lunch—easy to send back if it didn’t suit us. The proposal stemmed from an ultimatum, marking it as one of the most unenthusiastic in history. Even the wife after Anne Boleyn seemed more eager to tie the knot than I was.
Jake was undoubtedly a decent guy. Here’s a glimpse of how decent:
When my mother was diagnosed with stage three colon cancer, Jake, despite his anxiety behind the wheel, rented a car and navigated through challenging roads to West Virginia. He picked up prescriptions, drove us to chemotherapy sessions, and even bought dinner from the local grocery store. My parents were living in a post office at that time—a story for another day—and Jake accepted this situation without hesitation, sitting atop a stack of catalogs and munching on yams. Occasionally, curious postal customers would peer through the mailboxes, and he would cheerfully wave his fork at them.
After my mother completed her toughest treatments, Jake and I drove to West Virginia in a rented RV since there was no room for us in the post office. We invited friends for a Memorial Day pig roast, an experience that didn’t exactly thrill Jake. He was a New Yorker, an insomniac who preferred Thai food and indie films over camping and pig roasts.
Returning the RV late that night, I scrutinized the rental agreement, noting that the sewage valves should remain open. I felt confident, having received help earlier from a friendly truck driver at a rest stop. However, when Jake twisted the valves, he let out a horrified scream. Peering through the window, I heard an unmistakable sound—something hitting the pavement. My mind raced, denying the reality of what I feared.
It turned out the truck driver had rushed us, leaving us with a mess that stemmed from nine people over a long weekend of indulgence. “The tanks are not empty,” Jake muttered, and I wondered about the fees for leaving a pile of raw sewage in the parking lot.
With a resigned sigh, Jake retrieved a piece of cardboard from our trunk, trying unsuccessfully to scoop the mess into the woods. He quickly switched tactics, donning plastic bags like gloves and using his hands to gather the unpleasantness. When another RV pulled in, he awkwardly raised his bagged hands, hoping to go unnoticed. They parked, dropped their keys, and left without a glance in our direction.
Jake never complained about the pig roast he’d rather have skipped, the long drive he disliked, or the RV mess. “What if we try washing the pavement?” I suggested, but the hose couldn’t reach us. A bucket became our tool of choice as we lugged water to clean the blacktop, only to realize the slope led straight to the office door.
Eventually, we surrendered, returned the keys, and drove back to Brooklyn, where Jake promptly laundered our clothing and shoes the next day, still without a single complaint.
Around this time, Lori Gottlieb published “Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough” in The Atlantic, urging women to lower their standards to avoid solitude. Though not directly influenced by her piece, the pressure of being 33 and unmarried loomed over me. I decided to commit to a relationship that, while solid—full of love and kindness—wasn’t quite right. Jake didn’t want marriage or children, preferring his artistic lifestyle. Yet I convinced myself that a “fine relationship” was better than none, demanding he propose.
Planning the wedding was an ordeal, filled with an awkwardness that felt more like a chore than a celebration. Our nuptials at City Hall resembled a forced contest, leaving me feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration.
Our honeymoon was lackluster at best, devoid of romance, resembling a tedious call to an insurance company after an accident. We wandered around a lake, my mood heavy and morose, while Jake bore the burden of my discontent.
Statistics about eligible bachelors often echoed the sentiments in Gottlieb’s article: women were settling for less to avoid being alone. The ongoing commentary suggested that women were seeking financial support rather than genuine connection, skewing the discussion away from economic realities.
On the flip side, some men criticized women for “settling,” suggesting that they should compromise more, as if women’s worth could be ranked on a scale.
In October of that year, I met someone new at a party—a musician and teacher with a charming demeanor. Our chemistry was undeniable. By our fifth date, he had addressed my complaints about a lack of soap in his bathroom, and by our sixth, he expressed his desire for marriage and family. We soon wed at 35 and welcomed our children at 36 and 39. Life with him is full of joy, even in mundane moments.
However, parenting is more challenging than I anticipated, especially without family nearby. It feels like I’m pushing a boulder uphill, a modern Sisyphus navigating the throes of motherhood.
In closing, it’s essential to recognize that relationships are complex. My journey from settling for Mr. “Good Enough” to finding true partnership highlights the importance of knowing one’s worth and seeking fulfillment. If you’re considering your options for starting a family, explore resources like American Pregnancy for valuable insights, or check out Make a Mom for at-home insemination kits. You can also visit Make a Mom for expert advice on insemination methods.
Summary
Six years ago, I entered into a marriage with Jake, a man I deemed “good enough” despite his reluctance towards traditional family life. Faced with challenges, including my mother’s cancer diagnosis and the aftermath of a messy RV rental experience, I reflected on my relationship’s shortcomings. Ultimately, I realized the importance of pursuing genuine connection and fulfillment, leading me to a new partner who embraced the family life I desired.
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