For richer or poorer?

I never thought money mattered in my relationship. But when my husband lost his job, I considered leaving him.

Editor's note: Excerpted and adapted with permission from "The Secret Currency of Love: The Unabashed Truth About Women, Money, and Relationships," edited by Hilary Black (William Morrow, 2009).

By Marisa Belger

Read more: Love, Romance, Sex, Divorce, Relationships, Marriage, Economy, Excerpts, Life

Jan. 10, 2009 | For the first few months of my relationship with Paul we never thought about money. I mean, what use would it be when we had everything we needed already? His spacious studio apartment on the wrong side of Venice Beach had a comfortable queen-sized bed (where we spent most of our time), a shower with plenty of hot water and a fluffy gray carpet that begged to be rolled upon. Mostly we stayed inside, eating easy, inexpensive foods that will forever be sexy: chicken breasts broiled with mozzarella and basil, green salads strewn with edible flowers from the farmers' market, big hunks of chocolate.

When not at home, we could be found cruising in his 1998 beige pickup truck -- complete with crew cab, functioning CD player and room for two surfboards. Here we'd belt out Bruce Springsteen ballads and wiggle in our seats to old hip-hop songs. Paul never flinched when I put my hot feet on the cool dashboard. And I thought it was sexy when he steered with his knees as he put sugar in his coffee. We stopped only for milkshakes or gas, and when we did he paid, but sometimes I did too.

Between the truck and the queen-sized bed was Paul -- always Paul. We met, covered in dust and sequins at the Burning Man festival in the Nevada desert. And by fate or luck or chance, a week later I flew to Los Angeles, where Paul was then living, and soon I was sharing spicy tuna rolls with him in tiny Japanese restaurants on the west side of the city. We also drank beers on the beach, went for long rides on Highway 1, and made out like teenagers who expected their parents to walk in at any second. I fell hard for his blue eyes. He made me laugh until I ached.

But through the foggy haze of brand-new love-lust, I couldn't help but notice a few key facts about Paul's finances: (1) he wasn't a rich man (rich men don't live in neighborhoods where hourly motels outnumber residential buildings); (2) his work in sales for a popular sports drink company rendered him gainfully employed albeit minimally compensated; and (3) after a loose attempt at breaking into acting, he had no long-term professional goals.

This information did little to dissuade me from professing my love or encouraging him to break his lease, drive cross-country and move into my studio in Manhattan.

I owned that studio, purchased with the help of my mother and stepfather. Comfortably upper-middle-class, they had given me a plush suburban childhood complete with yearly vacations, a car at 17 and both bachelor's and master's degrees with no lingering loans. When I met Paul, I had already lived in France and the Netherlands, vacationed regularly in Mexico and the Caribbean, and toured far-off locales like South Africa and Korea.

Paul had been out of the country exactly once. He went to college at a local school in New Jersey and worked each summer repairing roofs or installing stainless-steel kitchen appliances. He was a terrible student with an ADD-like inability to focus on a text or write a paper. He took his first job when he was six -- sweeping up a family friend's butcher shop -- and many more followed. Some involved manual labor, others were sales or marketing. All were short-lived.

Later I would wonder if Paul didn't miss having money because it was never there in the first place. His mother, divorced in her 30s, struggled to raise three kids while maintaining the overhead on their rambling, unfinished house. His grandparents, who lived down the street, often stepped in with a necessary hot meal. Paul was eligible for his school's free lunch. He called himself poor.

But he wasn't lonely. His family was big -- huge, actually. My parents were warm, but I had never seen people enjoy each other like Paul's clan did. People got drunk and danced on tables. A current of loyalty and dedication swept through this crowd where first cousins were best friends and spouses were sucked into the fold. Suddenly I found myself with 30 new people who would do anything for me.

Paul asked me to marry him one year to the day after we met, and I didn't hesitate, saying, yes, yes, yes, I would be honored and humbled to share my life with you. Our wedding would be 10 months later at a sprawling inn by the Hudson River in upstate New York. My parents would pay for the lavish affair -- all we had to do was show up.

I knew couples who had allowed their finances to infiltrate their union like an evil ménage à  trois. But that wasn't the way it was with us. Even newly engaged, money continued to have almost no influence on our relationship. I attributed some of it to what I believed were my exceptionally reasonable needs. I prided myself on being low-maintenance, a truly modern woman. As long as I had the flexibility to go out to dinner once in a while -- at an average establishment, nothing fancy -- and to buy the occasional treat, like a pair of boots or a plane ticket to visit a girlfriend in L.A., I considered myself lucky. So, when Paul lost his job three days before our wedding, I barely winced. We'd just charge our honeymoon on the credit cards that I'd recently cleared, and we'd pay them off when he was back on track. No problem.

In the beginning, adapting to our shrunken income was fun. Really. I'd make us big bowls of pasta with garlicky tomato sauce and remind Paul that this was what peasants ate in Italy. We'd drink cheap wine and snuggle up on the couch, laughing because kissing was free. It was romantic. Really. In bed, before falling asleep, we'd softly sing the famous lyric from that cheesy 70s folk song: "Even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with you, honey." And we meant it.

But then things changed. I'll never know if something inside of me shifted, or if it was the revealing of a truth that was already there, but as Paul moved into month two of his search for work, I was suddenly and clearly not OK. As a freelance writer, I barely supported myself. Sustaining the two of us left me crumpled on the floor at the end of each month, surrounded by bills that were impossible to pay. I tried to brush it off -- to be cool, Zen, removed, relaxed. I told myself there were people out there who never paid their electricity bill on time and still went on to lead happy, fulfilling lives. But the tears still streamed down my face as I sent American Express my last penny and ticked off the days until my next paycheck.

Paul was sorry and ashamed that we were in this position. He took part-time work and stepped up his job hunt, but nothing stuck. Meanwhile, I was trapped in a vortex of worry, often close to despair. I didn't recognize the pushy, nervous person that I had become. When I watched Paul as he brushed his teeth or made our bed in the morning, it seemed as if I had allowed a stranger into my life.

There was a time -- I was sure of it -- when I was in touch with what really matters (love, if you're wondering). I could have sworn that I wasn't superficial or materialistic or needy. And Paul was destined to be my ultimate partner, the one man who could match me in strength and ambition and potential. There was no way that he was lost and insecure and confused. But he was. And so was I.

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