For about four years in my mid-twenties, I dated and lived with a guy who was as wrong for me as a double-breasted blazer. He certainly wasn’t the only guy I ever got involved with who wasn’t Mr. Right, but he’s only one I stayed with about three years longer than I should have. I could cite plenty of reasons why it took me so long to leave him: he was comfortable, I was afraid of being alone, I got free turkey sandwiches at the restaurant he managed, but if I’m being honest, it was my financial dependency on him that made it so hard to end the relationship. Even now, I’m embarrassed to recall how I, an “independent woman,” allowed myself to be dependent on a man, but the truth is I was lazy and spoiled.