In my high school and college dating days, forty year old inner me would gaze out from behind a young body subject to that young body's impulses and drives, and ask plainly:
Would I want to share custody and responsibility for a child with the person across from me?
That assessment, uncommonly sober among my peers in their teens and twenties, guided decision-making in my romantic life.
Fast forward thirty years, and I am happily married to someone out of my league.
Occasionally I run into the beautiful women who once had their choice of men back in the day. Many find themselves blazing new trails as divorced, attractive mothers. As we make small talk, I catch brief glimpses as they apply a mental calculus in reassessing me.
Namely, they seem to be asking themselves:
Why didn't I choose someone like this to share custody of my child for life?
It's an odd validation, akin to arriving at a moment when those small and value funds certain finance nerd friends have held for years since learning of Fama and French finally have a killer year.
The social evidence mounts in my unpublished case series. I look around and find that those friends I hold dearest had a similar long-term outlook.
In childhood they were misfits; picked on or picked last; wore the wrong clothes; listened to the wrong music; shared the wrong enthusiasms with others of dubious social status.
In three decades the social hierarchy has been flipped upside down, with the advantage tilting unevenly to favor the misfits.
So take heart, my awkward fellowship in the frugal tail of medicine. There's great value to be found in going long on yourself.