Entrepreneur dating

When I started traveling with Rand, we’d walk into a room filled with his colleagues, and he’d disappear. And it was one of the best skills I’ve ever acquired. I miss you all the time.” It’s that simple, really.

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When his company finally sold, or went public, or came to a close through some other, less desirable means. Look, my husband loves me more than the sun, but the sun is objectively more important than I am.

I suppose if I made him choose, I might win, but what, really, would be the point?

If they don’t know him, don’t know what he does for a living, they’ll stare at me, blankly, not understanding. What kind of madman voluntarily works on a Friday night?

Someone who doesn’t pout when I accidentally wash brownie batter out of the bowl before he can eat it. That I still can miss him so acutely, even after ten years, has been perhaps the biggest surprise.

No guarantee that you’ll have health insurance, or even another paycheck. There will never be a party that he attends until the end.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Do it all again.” And that’s when it hit me: there will never be free weekends. And I will always fall asleep to the sound of his keyboard clicking. I’m lucky: my husband finds the nonstop stream of vitriol emerging from my mouth to be adorable. I once told the board member of a prestigious national newspaper that modern journalism was “a bunch of crap” (I didn’t realize he was in the field at the time). The only thing I found that I could be sure of was the clicking of his keyboard from the other room, or, on nights when he was out of town, just the thought of it. So Rand and I agreed to split everything down the middle: Shares. In the unlikely event of our divorce, they didn’t want me to have voting rights over his company. He’s never sat on a stair with his head in his hands, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life.

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