My MONEY magazine subscription came with an article on how to marry a billionaire. I don’t know. Color me new-fashioned, but shouldn’t MONEY be telling me how to make my own money, not latch on to someone because of his?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not averse to dating men with money. And I’ve dated more than a couple in my lifetime. I’ve dated rich men with their own major domos, to well-off men with waterfront homes and Porsches in the driveway, to men who simply made some really good cake and could afford to live comfortably if not extravagantly.
I’ve also dated men on the opposite end of the money spectrum — guys so broke our dates consisted of long walks, moon-gazing, used bookstore haunting, and mutual navel-gazing over endless cheap coffees. Our big nights out would come if somehow one of us scored free tickets to Fenway or had a friend bouncing the door at some hot new restaurant opening where free food and a single complimentary drink would tide us over ’til an all-you-can-eat Sunday brunch.
What I’ve learned about men — the ones with even a modest amount of money and assets and independence to protect — is that men are so afraid of losing what they already have that they let what they could potentially have slide to the wayside. By the time the realize what they’re losing, it’s usually too late to get it back.
I’ve always felt if a man wants a prenup, hell, hand me a pen. I believe in protecting assets acquired before a relationship or marriage, for sure. But at some point, marriage, heck, even living together, is all about sharing – protect yourself, yes, but share as well. I figure, a man who doesn’t want to share everything while he’s in a relationship is just as bad as a woman who wants to take everything when she leaves one.
Money, as nice as it is, means a lot when you’re talking about fear and power, but it doesn’t mean jack when you’re talking love.
Here’s what means jack: the way he stands up when you come back from the restroom at a restaurant; the way he tells you you’re beautiful when you know you look like hell; the way he kills the monster-sized bug in the bathroom while you freak out in the hall; the way he intertwines his hand with yours when he’s making love to you. And yes, the way he’d give you the shirt off his back knowing he might never get it back … and the way he’s okay with that potential loss — of both the love and the shirt.
I’ve met plenty of men who will happily squash errant bugs, but not yet one who who has the guts for love. The guts to acknowledge they might take a hit — financially or otherwise — and still go forward anyway.
I’m not trying to be mean; I’m certainly not saying men are gutless overall. I’m just saying, I’ve never met a man who had the guts to risk everything for one thing — love.
Maybe I’m the fool. I’ve certainly been played for one. Because I have. I did. And I’d do it again … risk everything for a real love — a gutsy, bold, sexy kind of love that doesn’t boil down to who pays for what and figuring out all the ins and outs before going forward.
Love is ultimately about risk. Making a relationship — a real one — requires the acceptance of possibly losing something in the long run. But love also requires the faith and desire for possibly gaining a whole helluva lot more than one can even imagine.
Yes, I’d take a chance on love again … with one major exception. This time around I’ll only jump if I’m with a man who has the same size cajones as I do. I’ve spent too many days and nights with men who lacked the balls to really go at love. With every ounce and fiber and fear and skepticism and excitement and lust.
Sure I’ve had men who dropped thousands and thousands on diamonds, dinners, flights to Paris … men who busted their ass to help me in a gazillion tangible ways. Men who made love like their life depended on it. Men who gave a lot materially. Men who talked a lot about how much they loved me.
Unfortunately, I’ve met a lot of men who talk and shop and bust ass in big ways but in the small ways of the heart — they simply end up hovering around on the sidelines of life.
They never really jump all in to anything. They talk about it. They think about it. But they just never really pull the trigger. And, I’m certainly not talking about the marriage trigger. I’m just talking about having the guts to go all in with love. To get messy, to get a little dirt on your feet, to argue and know you’ll survive. To risk losing everything. To put it all on the line.
If I take a leap of faith again, next time it will be with a man who’s ready and willing to jump off that cliff with me. Who, in fact, grabs my hand and holds on like hell as we both jump over together. Someone who will protect what he had before me, but will unequivocally share what he’s got in present day. Whether that’s money, or time, or property, or family, or friends, or emotions.
I’ve heard bravery described as the quality of someone who feels the fear but who takes action despite the fear. I guess I want a brave man. To match my own bravery. To make me brave in those places where I’m still a big ‘ole scaredy-cat. To be braver together than we could ever possibly be on our own.
The way I figure it — in love, just like in life: no guts, sure as hell, no glory.