Marriages are Like Martinis 🍸
They say marriages are like martinis. One’s not enough, and three’s too many.
What nobody mentions is that sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is to leave it unfinished, whether it’s the first or the third, and walk away.
I’ve had to learn that.
More than once.
With both marriages and martinis.
· · ·
It was longer than Britney’s but shorter than Kim’s, the most tumultuous forty-five days of my forty-five years. We were married at City Hall in lower Manhattan on a lovely May afternoon. I wore blush pink. It’s my favorite color, and besides, white and ivory wash me out. My Hollywood waves have never looked better before or since.
Hollywood Waves
My Hollywood waves on my wedding day and the only photo I have of myself. The divorce rate is 55%. Learn from my mistake and make sure you get photos by yourself on the day.
My mother, who was in no way supportive of the union, changed her tune after she saw our photos: candids in front of the Bethesda Fountain, us walking hand-in-hand through Central Park, us again on the Bethesda Terrace gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. She opined that we looked like we belonged together, a compliment she doesn’t hand out lightly.
It pains me to admit it now, but our wedding photos were objectively really, really good. (You’ll just have to take my word for it.)
We had oysters and champagne at The Plaza, which happened to be decorated for another wedding with blush-pink roses everywhere the eye could see. Other patrons assumed it was our reception, wished us well, and remarked on what a beautiful couple we were.
Back at home, we ordered McDonald’s. I splurged and got the Oreo McFlurry because calories don’t count on your wedding day. We cuddled with my dog and watched the final season of Queen of the South — relishing the mundane of what we hoped our married life would be, the Netflix-and-chill of it all, the thing we’d always watched other couples take for granted.
Actual wedding day photo. I wish I could’ve read her mind. Did she know??
Later, we lay in bed marveling that we were finally married, giddy with excitement, and said goodnight the way newlyweds do.
“Goodnight, wife.”
“Goodnight, husband.”
We drifted off to sleep with smiles on our faces.
· · ·
Our love was obvious, electric, all-consuming to anyone who spent time with us. We were so alive. We listened to music—there was always a foot-tapping soundtrack playing in the background. We laughed at everything and at nothing—the kind of roaring laughter that makes strangers in restaurants turn to stare. We danced around hotel rooms all over the world and ordered room service at midnight. We held hands at 2am under star-studded skies so wide and dark they made Manhattan feel small and talked about our future like it was a place we could actually get to.
We were, genuinely, the most fun either of us had ever had. We celebrated life completely and without apology, and our connection was impenetrable. In a crowded room, our eyes would catch and everyone else just… disappeared. One subtle nod from me and he could read my thoughts.
I believed in us, in every word of the fairy tale we were spinning. So did he.
It was romantic. It was timeless. It was everlasting.
Or so we thought.
· · ·
I still remember every moment, the good and the bad. Couldn’t forget even if I tried because believe me, I have tried to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind erase it all.
That movie’s a scam by the way.
And yet there’s one thing I can’t remember. I can’t remember how I had fooled myself into believing our relationship could work. I can’t remember how I convinced myself to ignore all the reasons why it couldn’t, why it wouldn’t, why it ultimately didn’t work out.
My therapist says I have a special gift for imagining the bleakest worst-case scenarios, the highest of compliments, and even I, in all my scanning for trouble, hadn’t fathomed our relationship changing course so dramatically after three years together. It fell apart faster than either of us had imagined possible.
The sparkle dimmed. The shine tarnished. We said horrible things and then worse things and then nothing at all, the weighty silence heavy with resentment. My dog started hiding in the bedroom to avoid us because our vibes were off and she’s a good-vibes-only kind of lady.
And then one day, there was nothing left to fight for.
· · ·
I’ll save the dirty details for another time. Suffice it to say that when it was over, there was absolutely no going back.
I joke now that the first marriage is a starter marriage — practice for the real thing. I’m hopeful that the second one gives you what you actually need. And the third...
Well, I’m not so sure about that one. One ex-husband seems enough for me.
Yes, marriages are like martinis and in more ways than one. Sometimes the best thing you can do is leave it unfinished on the bar. Not because it wasn’t good.
Because you knew when you’d had enough.
I’m no teetotaler, though, in life or in love. There are days when nothing serves me better than a perfectly crafted dirty Belvedere martini with three bleu cheese stuffed olives.
Other times you enter a marriage of another kind.
From the ruins of my no-longer-happily-ever-after, I finally had the audacity and courage to build the company of my dreams.
Aphrodite Media, which officially launched as an IP studio in January 2026 but had been in the works since 2020, married three of my loves—storytelling, purpose-driven business, and empowering women to live their dreams as authors.
If that’s not a reason to order another round, I don’t know what is.
With love over a dirty martini,
Rachael
