I spent the first half of my life believing I overdid everything.
I had big hair, a big mouth, and a healthy appetite, all of which I spent hours trying to suppress. I practiced lowering my voice and batting my eyelashes, sitting on my hands, and taming my curls. (In fact, I became a big fan of a product called “Tame,” which, even though only a hair product, I hoped would seep deeply into my soul and calm the wildness in me. Let’s just say it didn’t work, not even on my hair.)
I thought nobody would like me because I was too needy and too demanding. Let me qualify that: I thought no guy would fall in love with me because I was too needy and too demanding. My girlfriends and my male friends, for that matter, seemed to appreciate my moxie. To them, I never had to apologize for turning the music up, dancing every dance, wanting to take leftovers home, or ordering a second bottle of champagne.
After my first marriage ended—he, after all, wanted a nicer, easier companion—I was convinced I would never find a man who’d be able to accept me at full volume.
Nevertheless I dared to have breakfast with a colleague, a guy from Jersey who I figured might not be appalled by the idea that too much is not enough.
When I asked the server to “throw some extra hash browns on the plate,” however, he widened his eyes in a way that I could only interpret as disapproval. I thought I’d blown it.
But the next day he bought me a 5-pound bag of potatoes as a gift.
It was better than a bouquet, and Reader, I married him.