Green Flags My Husband Had When I Met Him & Whether He Still Has Them

has life changed my lover? or is he the same man he was when I fell for him...

When I met the man I would marry and reproduce with (not in that order), I noticed a few red flags. I overlooked them, as I’ve written before, and I’m glad I did. Part of the reason I overlooked them was, as I argued before, many conventional ‘red flags’ are judgmental, limiting biases. But the other reason was that he had a lot of green flags.

Since that first summer together when I was charmed by every flag shade, so much has changed. We’ve weathered a global pandemic, moved three times (internationally, nationally, and same zipcode), shouldered an emergency cesarean surgery, a mostly-alone home birth, job changes, and the usual stressors of life.

When I think back to our happy-go-lucky courtship, we seem like different people. So I wondered, were all the things that captivated me about my (hopefully) lifelong lover still present in him?

Here are the green flags that woo’d me and whether my husband still waves them:

He was a sweet drunk

When he got drunk, he was the guy who’d sit smiling from his own thoughts, his legs crossed on his bar stool. He might want to pick up a kebob. But he always just wanted to go home, crawl in bed, and snooze. If I made a move, he’d delightedly follow my lead, but mostly we’d have uber-intimate morning hangover sex. I’d only seen him get non-sweet drunk once. He was angsty over class injustice, and said things like “Fuck em, ya know what I mean? They’re all bastards.” It was still sweet!

And he still is.

Our drunk selves do reveal our inner worlds, don’t they? He’s still just as cheerful, and just as interested in a good night’s sleep. We get fewer kebobs in Brooklyn, but we’ll have a cheeky cheese and biscuits after our rare nights out. With our years, I’ve of course seen him angry, but even in our fights, I know he’s a sweet one.

He planned dates

He baked a plum cake for a park picnic in the middle of a pub crawl. He bought tickets for a gig he thought we’d enjoy in the moment, and as a longer-term introduction to each other’s tastes. I appreciated his initiative and his commitment to what he loved — music, food, and the amble of it all.

He still does, kind of.

He’ll orchestrate an afternoon rock hunt with stops for paints and pint (singular (he’s a responsible parent)), culminating in a craft hour at home with our kids. His ideal amble now includes our offspring, so we plan fewer date-dates, but fortunately for both of us, our ideal ambles are complementary.

He read aloud to me

A seafaring turn-of-the-century tale over coffee, hungover in bed. A random page of a hardcover original McSweeney’s collection over tea before meeting friends at the pub. It was years before the ‘performative male’ meme, so I had no reason not to be dazzled. He did subdued character voices. He paused when pauses were apt. I was charmed every time.

He doesn’t any longer.

The only things he reads aloud to me lately are things he’s written. It’s maybe more sweet. But less romantic. We have fewer of those leisure moments to fill with idle happenings right now, as parents to young ones. We prioritize to save our sanity. But I know one day we’ll find this habit again.

He had his own hobbies and interests

He had a collection of guitar loop pedals that he tinkered with regularly without ever feeling the need to record a track. He got lost in Wikipedia holes. He lifted weights and went to the swimming ponds with his guy friends. He frequented punk shows with his gal friends. He made pasta by hand because it tasted better, but when he had it from a box, he had his preferred brand. He was discerning. He prioritized joy, well-being, and fun for those reasons, not status or some shit.

He still does.

He finally transcribes and publishes some of his creations. But he still enjoys the ephemeral: He’s currently working out the best pizza dough, and he recently perfected the breakfast burrito.

La piscine (1969). He gave me no warnings. Neither will I for you.

He shared (well recc’d) art culture with me

After our first date, he gave me the recently published Convenience Store Woman. I adored it. He texted me, “‘Venus in Furs’ is so Abigail.” It was an accurate representation. He texted, “This made me think of you,” with the link for “Maria’s Theme” by The Liminanas, and I understood why. It touched me. He suggested we watch La Piscine, and we viewed it side by side on his pink corduroy loveseat. From these recommendations, I knew he knew me, and I knew I wanted to keep knowing him too.

He still does, kind of.

He’s the chooser for 90% of our post-kid bedtime evening viewings. He’s our lingerie shopper. He recently told me I “had to” listen to The Kink Machine, an audiobook by the FT. He was right; I did have to. Our diminished time for leisure and dates has impacted personal explorations, so we send each other fewer things, and when we do, they’re much more functional (sex, work, leisure). I’m sure we’ll spread ourselves more toward the gratuitous (which is never where sex is slotted, lol) soon enough.

—

To me, these were standout characteristics of a compelling mate. There are many more, of course: He had many real friendships. He had a real job and ambition, but he knew how to slack off. He listened. He cared. He wasn’t a poet, but he knew how to express his feelings enough to be vulnerable.

Lucky for me, he’s still the man I fell for, just with a few more gray hairs.

As for my red and green flags, well, I asked him. I’ll share soon. xx

I’m wishing you a love filled week, dear reader. Did you catch my last pieces — the summer erotic reset, or the sex story as demonstration of the hot potential of hetero communication gaps? If something related to this current piece interests you, consider this: