It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a good education must be in want of a rich husband.
Or so the world implied when, in May 2009, I celebrated my second graduation from Columbia University. This time I threw my cap into the air to the tune of a Master’s degree in Art History. A few months later, I was unemployed and facing an uncertain future. I packed my two diplomas into a cardboard box and did what every 20-something was loathe to do – give up an apartment in New York City and move to the suburbs.
I’m a 30-something quasi-New Yorker, part Carrie Bradshaw, part Elizabeth Bennett, part Bridget Jones, mostly myself. The #1 piece of advice people gave me as I started to navigate my way through early adulthood: “Find yourself a nice, rich husband.”
Surely, they had better advice to offer than that.
I not really a girl trying to find a rich husband. I’m just a girl trying to understand how we live and love now.
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