She’s a Personality Sampler Pack

When I married my wife, I did it for all the right reasons. She had wit sharp enough to slice through small talk, beauty that could hush a room, and a charm that made waiters remember our names long after we forgot theirs. But I also married her for her personality—singular, I thought at the time.

It turns out I got the variety pack.

She didn’t mention that in the vows. She stood there looking like a dream in lace, repeating after the minister with a steady voice and twinkling eyes. Not once did she say, “I do—except when I don’t, depending on which of my six alter egos is steering the ship that day.”

Now, don’t misunderstand. I’m not complaining. I’ve grown to love the unpredictability. It keeps the days interesting, like a weather forecast that says, “Surprise!”

Mornings often start with “The Planner.” This version of her wakes up already three steps into the day.

She’s bright-eyed, efficient, and full of bullet points. Before I finished my first cup of coffee, she told me what we were doing next Saturday, what I should wear, and what the dog’s spiritual goals were for the week.

By lunch, “The Philosopher,” greets me. It likes to sit with a sandwich and ponder the mysteries of the universe: why socks vanish in the dryer or whether the squirrels in our yard are unionizing. I nod and chew, knowing better than to challenge her logic.

She’s read a lot of books.

Midafternoon can bring out “The Critic.” She’s not mean—just observant.

She’ll gently point out that my favorite T-shirt has holes, my truck needs washing, and maybe, just maybe, my storytelling has a tendency to wander. I thank her for the feedback and try to look busy until she turns into someone less editorial.

Then, come evening, I often meet “The Romantic.” She lights candles for no reason, plays old love songs, and tells me how lucky she is, just as I’m trying to unclog the sink with a coat hanger. She doesn’t care.

I could be ankle-deep in a plumbing disaster, and she’d still say, “You’re the most handsome man with a wrench I’ve ever seen.”

And I believe her.

There’s also “The Jokester,” who shows up after a glass of wine and a sitcom rerun. She does impressions, terrible ones, and laughs until she snorts.

She once pretended to be a French chef while making boxed macaroni and cheese. I clapped. What else can you do?

And then—on rare, quiet nights—there’s “The Real One.” The one who curls up beside me, sighing into my shoulder and saying nothing at all. She doesn’t need to. She’s all of them, and none of them, and somehow more than that.

Marriage, I’ve come to believe, is less about understanding and more about appreciating. Like those sampler boxes of chocolate—you don’t always know what you’re going to bite into, but you keep coming back for another, just in case it’s your favorite.

So yes, I married her for her personality. It’s just that I didn’t know it was a six-pack.