I'm getting married

good news: she loves butter

Jun 06, 2026

Well, Buttercups, I’ve been putting this off for a while now because I know it won’t be easy for you. But let me just say it plainly: you’re getting a new mom.

That’s right. I’ve found The One. My best friend with whom I share a vision for life and deepest held convictions.

The one who makes me smile like a fool whenever she sends me a text, not knowing if it’s going to be a niche meme, an encouraging Bible verse, or a reminder to reach out to one of our friends and ask how they’re doing.

Her name is Alexandra, and she’s the woman of my Wildest Dreams.

The woman who, when I see her across the room—whether it be in her apartment when she looks like a “slug” (her words, not mine) or at a fancy ball looking like the visual aid for Merriam-Webster’s definition of striking (my words, not hers)—makes me think: That girl is mine, and I get to be her man.

If you haven’t experienced this kind of mutual romantic proprietorship, then you haven’t known peace or passion in their fullest form. Having my person—the one with whom I’ll bury metaphorical bodies and also hatchets—is an insane feeling, and even better reality.

Here’s how it went down.

Alexandra has a cute little health podcast called Culture Apothecary, which is sort of like a Temu version of Running On Butter.

Just kidding. Her podcast is brilliant, and it’s how I first discovered her more than three years ago. Over the last few years, I had listened to her grow as a thinker.

As I was hearing her evolution (radicalization) in real time, I was thinking we’d make a great couple.

So I petitioned our mutual friends, Samuel and Anne Sey, and also Katy Faust to help a dude out. I hounded them to help me land a date, but each time I reached out, she was dating a loser.

It wasn’t until last fall that I would finally get her attention, here on these hallowed pages of ROB. I gave a casual shout-out, not thinking anything would become of it.

I had been down bad crying at the Crossfit gym thinking I’d never get a shot with her. She didn’t want me. I posted the piece and went to bed.

The next morning I woke to dozens of texts messages and missed calls. I thought something was wrong, but it was all of you—the Buttercups—telling me that Alexandra had seen and shared my post.

“VANCE!! WAKE UP! ALEX FREAKING CLARK IS A BUTTERCUP! SHE KNOWS YOU EXIST. GET ON IT NOW AND SHOOT YOUR SHOT!!!!”

When I saw this, my first thought was: What will our children look like?

I then got her number, called her, and asked her to dinner. She gave me the option of going out the next day or the following week because she was traveling. I picked the next day. I had to capitalize on the moment.

We went to The Ends in Scottsdale, where she showed up nine minutes late. Each of those nine minutes had me reconsidering my firm conviction against physician assisted suicide, unsure if I could continue in this life if she stood me up.

I will never forget seeing her for the first time. I’d seen images of her, of course. But the pictures and videos online were incapable of translating the charm and voltage of her presence.

The conversation at dinner was animated by topics including church, politics, family, health, ~~if our kids would have my eyes or hers,~~ and music.

Our second date was hanging with Crossfit Kevin and his wife Jordan, and our third was at my church. At church, we were sitting in the pews and she reached over and put her hand on mine. I remember thinking: In the house of God?!? Bold move!!

I had to fly out of town that night for work, and she offered to take me to the airport. I made her chocolate chip cookies as a thank you and she put together a MAHA snack bag for my travels. On our way to the airport, I asked her to my girlfriend. She was shocked by the velocity of my pursuit.

The reason I asked after only three dates was because she casually mentioned she might go on a second date with another guy. My reaction was immediate: absolutely not. I saw the target, was homed in, and needed exclusivity.

She said yes to being my girlfriend, and well, it’s been a wild ride ever since.

We’ve protested at the Supreme Court and taken moonlit beach walks in Florida. We’ve kissed in Central Park and two-stepped in Arizona country bars. We’ve been to great indie-pop concerts, symphonies, and sang our favorite songs together in the car.

We’ve played pickleball with friends and have eaten a lot of pickled vegetables. She’s my biggest cheerleader when I’m challenged at Hyrox races, and I’m hers when she’s challenged by the White House.

We did Thanksgiving together in Indiana at her mom’s, a lady who I’ve come to admire and appreciate deeply. We did Christmas at my family’s in Washington where she handled my family—parents, nine siblings, eight in-laws, 39 nieces and nephews—with grace and confidence.

These are just what we’d consider the Instagramable moments, which, sure, are cool. But it’s the non-eventful times that are sweetest with Alexandra. The moments where we talk about anything and everything, and encourage and challenge each other. Where she makes me laugh uncontrollably and where I remind her to meditate only on the things she can control.

We love being greeted by a sweet gray-haired lady named MaryLee at our small church, followed by an afternoon of grocery shopping and cooking a Sunday roast.

Put simply: We love living life together.

When we first started dating, my brother asked me what I like about Alexandra that most people wouldn’t know.

I told him that she is, without a doubt, the most multidimensional person I know. Her mind is quick. Her preferences, eclectic. Her opinions, original. Her convictions, biblical.

She is also the most principled person I know. There have been multiple opportunities for her to undercut her values—to stay quiet about the pesticide battle or advance a cause she doesn’t believe in—for the sake of being invited to the right parties or simply keeping the peace.

But in a world full of people whose values are tethered to whatever the algorithm rewards, Alexandra, in her stupidly priced high heels, is immovable.

Sometimes that stubbornness is frustrating. Like when she’s following a recipe with absurd fastidiousness, and I suggest adding an ingredient that isn’t explicitly called for in the cookbook. But being the intricate person she is, that obstinance is equilibrated by a tender heart.

She’s curious and caring, somehow maintaining what seems like 57 best friends, each convinced they’re the favorite.

That strong will + soft heart = the best soul.

This being the case, I asked her to be my wife in Seattle—a nod to one of her favorite films, Sleepless in Seattle. Without hesitation, she agreed to be Mrs. Running On Butter.

Together, our indefatigable campaign to heal a sick culture will be amplified tenfold now that we’re operating as a unit. Note to new readers: If you think Alex is radically MAHA, I make her look like Ronald McDonald. (Or Grimace, if you’re a real one.)

And if you are a new reader, subscribe for more chronicles of the adventures of Vance and Alexandra.