Couplehood Page 3

  Even if you’re both dressed right, you’re not leaving so fast. There’s always something to keep you from where you’re going.

  Here’s one: We’re going out to rent a video—something, by the way, that couples in the 1700s never did. “Honey, after you fend off the British, pick up a tape for tonight. Something with Jack Lemmon.”

  I don’t know when I’m going to learn that when you rent videotapes, it always ends up costing more than you thought it would. They have a big sign: “99 CENTS.” You think, “It’s a buck. It’s nothing.” So you’ll get two, three. “We’ll get five! It’s just five bucks!”

  Do you know how long it takes to watch five movies? A year and a half. You come back a year and half later and it costs you $1,400 to watch Fried Green Tomatoes. I simply refuse to learn.

  Anyway, I’m dressed. I’m ready to go. My wife says, “Okay, I have to pee and put on my shoes. I just need two minutes.”

  Fine. So I start playing with the stereo—with the presumption that when she’s ready, she’ll say, “I’m ready,” or something that will let me know she’s ready, at which point I’ll stop playing with the stereo, and we’ll go.

  Already I’ve presumed wrong.

  A few minutes later, my bride comes back, ready to go, sees I’m still playing with the stereo, decides I’m not doing my share of “getting ready,” and proceeds to busy herself with something else. She cleans a closet. Starts painting the garage. Something huge.

  Now, I don’t notice, because I’m playing. I’m happy. Twenty-five minutes later, she comes in, stands over me. I sense bad mood. I say, “What—are you waiting for me?”

  “Yes, I’m waiting for you. I’ve been ready for twenty-five minutes.”

  “Well, I’m ready. I’ve been ready since before you went upstairs to get ready. Why didn’t you say you were ready?”

  To which she says, “Let’s just go.”

  We get in the car, we’re not particularly talking. Feeling courageous, I open.

  “Why would you start cleaning a closet when you know I’m ready and all you have to do is let me know that you’re ready?”

  She thinks really hard and comes up with, “Because I want you to take some responsibility.”

  I take a nice deep breath. I say nothing. But I’m thinking, “This really shouldn’t be this hard. Before I was married, I never argued with myself about these types of things.”

  My choices are: (A) Get out of the car and live by myself, or (B) Push through this swamp and figure out what the hell we’re talking about.

  I go with Choice B, because, frankly, I really like the way her hair smells, and I know I would miss that.

  “Okay,” I venture. “Responsibility for what?”

  She says, “For getting us out. It shouldn’t be just me. I don’t want to be the policeman here.”

  “How are you the policeman?”

  “I don’t know. I just always feel like the policeman and I don’t like it.”

  You see, this is something you couldn’t possibly know going in: this woman hates feeling like a policeman. I didn’t even know that was a category of things that could go bad in a relationship: “Feeling-Too-Much-Like-Uniformed-Civil-Servants.” You can only learn this on the job. (And again—this may only be an issue if you marry my wife, which, frankly, what are the chances of that?)

  So we drive and we talk it out, and in short order, the smoke has cleared and she feels much better. I, by contrast, have a pounding in my eye that won’t go away, and a huge, slow burning, festering resentment.

  “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I don’t take responsibility? That’s so not true. I really hate that kind of comment—like I’m constantly auditioning”

  She’s calm now. “How are you auditioning?”

  “BECAUSE. What did you—just MEET me? You KNOW I take responsibility. And ANOTHER thing …”

  And now I get to be nutty for a few miles.

  It turns out, I have a thing about “Auditioning” that makes even less sense than her “Policeman” thing.

  But the beauty part is, in any couple only one person has to be sane at a time. You talk them out of their tree, so they can be coherent enough to talk you out of your tree. So ultimately, all the time you spend trying to understand the other person isn’t even for their sake. You just want to make sure they’re ready to handle your next psychotic episode.

  Which proves what I’ve always suspected: Marriage is just an elaborate game that allows two selfish people to periodically feel that they’re not.

  The

  Selfish

  Monster

  The great thing about being selfish and self-centered is you can do it anywhere, with anybody. It’s not restricted to those you love. And it’s not just me. Everyone is self-centered. But I’m really only concerned about myself here.

  I know, for example, that I’m selfish when I drive.

  The True Ugliness that lurks in our souls doesn’t always come out, but in traffic, it comes out plenty.

  When you’re stuck in traffic, you hate everybody. “Oh, look at this idiot. Why doesn’t he just GO? He sees I’m here, doesn’t he? Why wouldn’t he go? Come on, go go go go GO! If you would just go, there wouldn’t be traffic. That’s why there’s traffic: your failure to go!”

  We’ve got places to be and we want to be there NOW. It doesn’t matter where. You could be on your way to the dentist to get raw nerves sucked out of your jaw, and you’d still be upset. “Hey, I’m going to miss the whole nerve-sucking thing. Come ONNNNN.”

  It’s the guy directly in front of you you really hate. Somehow this is his fault. “If he would go, they’d all go.… Come ONNNNNNNN!”

  And you obsess about this guy. You’ve been staring at the back of his head so long, you want to be him. “If I could be where he is, I would be so happy. Let me be in front of him. That’s all I want. If I could just be where he is now, I would never ask for anything again, I swear.”

  Of course when you get to where he is, you’re still not happy. “Look where he is now, the lucky sonovabitch. He’s still doing better than me. All these people are looking back and laughing at me, I know it.”

  The only way to feel better is to turn around and look at the people behind you. “Yeah, well at least I’m ahead of those losers.” We just want to be better off than somebody.

  The only time we’re nice on the road is if an ambulance has to get through. Suddenly everyone cooperates. People you’ve been cursing at and giving the finger to are suddenly your good friends. You put away your differences, and peace and harmony prevail as you clear a path for your neighbors in need.

  Then, it’s a mad rush for the Ambulance Wake. Everybody wants to get behind that ambulance. “I saw it first, buddy. I pulled over first, so I get to go ahead of you —that’s how it works.”

  It’s the Selfish Monster.

  Ever been stuck behind an accident, and when you finally see the wreckage, you’re actually happy? “Here we go, here’s the problem. Things should pick up now, soon as we pass this carnage.”

  And when you tell your friends about it later, it’s all about you.

  “Sorry I’m late, some guy’s car exploded. Right in front of me. Can you believe my luck? Lost a good fifteen minutes.”

  Sometimes, I must admit, I become the very people that I hate. I get distracted and kind of forget to drive. I’ll sit at a green light for eight minutes because I forgot to look up. I’ll slow down to twenty miles an hour because I forgot to press down my foot. This is less dangerous than driving fast and reckless, but actually more annoying to those in the car with you.

  “Are you going to go around this guy or what?”

  “He’s going to go, relax.…”

  “There’s no driver. It’s an abandoned car.”

  “Oh … I knew that.”

  Driving with your loved one can strain the relationship because, though you’re doing it together, only one person’s in charge. The passenger is your prisoner.

  �
��Do you want me to drive?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because I don’t like the way you’re driving.”

  “How am I driving?”

  “I don’t know, but you’re making me crazy.”

  “You want to drive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad, I’m driving.”

  It’s not like fighting over the TV clicker, where if the battle for control gets ugly, one of you can leave the room. Here, the doors are locked and you’re doing sixty. Nobody’s going anywhere. (Which is essentially Marriage, but with High-Speed Motion thrown in to make it interesting.)

  If you’re ever on a long car trip together, you find you start to recognize the cars and drivers around you. You start to judge them, like you know them.

  “Look at that guy in the Mitsubishi—he’s still smoking. He really should cut down.… I’m going to talk to him next time we stop.”

  “That lady in the RV. That’s her fourth donut. How does she do that? Does she not know what she looks like?”

  Sometimes if you’re stuck in traffic with the same people, mile after mile, they genuinely become your neighbors. These are the people you turn to for solace. You complain to each other. First, you make eye contact. Then, little sympathetic sighs and dismissive waves of disgust.

  “Ahhhhhhh, pppfffhhh.” (I don’t believe I’ve ever spelled that out before.)

  Once in a while, you even roll down the window and chat. “Hey, can you believe this?”

  “Well, this sucks, doesn’t it? How is it over in your lane? Sucks?”

  “Here, too. Sucks. Guess it sucks everywhere, huh?”

  You develop a relationship with these people. Which is why I get upset when somebody tries to pass. It’s like they’re breaking up the relationship.

  Your first response? You’re shocked. You didn’t see this coming. “What do you mean you’re leaving? Why? Where are you going? I thought we all agreed we’d stick it out together.… What is it—you want to see other cars? Is that it? I guess you need some space of your own, huh? Well, fine. Go.… Just go.”

  And the great moment of revenge: Two minutes later, they come crawling back. They want back in. But, of course, you don’t let them in. You’ve been hurt, scorned—make them sweat.

  “Hey, look who’s back. I guess life in the fast lane didn’t work out like you planned. Suddenly I’m looking good to you, huh? Well, get in line, baby.”

  Negotiating

  in Good

  Faith

  A lot of times, the things you do when you’re alone aren’t necessarily selfish, they’re just dopey. But you don’t realize it till you see them bouncing off someone else.

  Actually, everything you do when you’re alone looks dumb. Ever watch what you do when you walk into the house by yourself? There’s no rhyme or reason to your actions. Just ten minutes of random, halfhearted, inefficient activity.

  You put down the mail and stand still. For about a minute. You just stand there and stare at a chair. Then you take your jacket off, not even all the way. Halfway off, so your arms are still dangling. You open one piece of mail and then get bored. You pop on the TV, flip through a few channels, looking for nothing at all in particular, and then forty seconds later, you shut it off. You weren’t even watching TV. You just wanted to have it on. Sort of making sure the appliance works.

  Then you open the refrigerator, stare at the shelves. Smell milk, put it back. Eat half a banana, read six words in a magazine, look out the window for two minutes.… No sense of purpose. Just lost in your own home. But no one sees, so no one knows.

  However, when you live with another person, you become self-conscious. I find I do the same things, but I announce them. Gives the impression I’ve thought this through.

  “I’m going to watch TV for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “Fifteen seconds. Then I have to be at the window; I’m going to stare at the house across the street for a little while.”

  “How long?”

  “Not more than ten seconds, because I have to eat half a banana and stare at a chair. And I’m already running late.”

  When two people live in one place, their individual habits get amplified.

  For example: I’m not lazy. But I don’t like to move a whole lot. I mean, if I’m doing something, I’ll do it. I’m as active as the next guy. But if I’m sitting, I don’t like to get up. Even if I’m facing the wrong way.

  If I’m talking to someone whose chair isn’t quite facing me, I’ll talk to the side of their head. If I sit down and realize the TV is angled wrong, I won’t get up to adjust. I’ll watch it like that. I’ll sit there and wait till someone walks by and ask them to move the TV.

  Sometimes I may notice I’m sitting on something uncomfortable. I don’t care. Like a stack of mail or something? It doesn’t bother me. Certainly not enough to move.

  I’m a big fan of Sitting.

  I’ll watch a show I’m not enjoying for 30, 40 minutes because I don’t feel like looking for the remote control. Forget about getting up to actually, physically change the channel on the TV itself—that stopped years ago.

  Once, we were watching TV and couldn’t find the remote control. (I should preface this by saying I was really, really tired.)

  Now, I sensed I was sitting on something hard that may very well have been the remote control, but I didn’t have the energy to get up and confirm. (How sad is that? I didn’t even have the drive to lean to one side. Even if just to dislodge an irritating piece of hardware from my person. Couldn’t do it.)

  Finally, my wife forcibly shoves me to one side and we find not only the remote control, but a pair of scissors, a glove she was looking all over for, and a tangerine.

  I realized I am either (A) really, really, remarkably lazy, or (B) I have no sensory receptors in my left buttock. Either way, it might be a problem.

  And once again, this kind of behavior is perfectly fine—unless you live with another human being. By yourself, who are you bothering? No one. In fact, it could even be an attribute. Nothing bothers you. You’re a guy who’s just okay with everything the way it is. But put someone else into the picture—now you’re bothering them.

  “Have you seen the new People magazine?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t see it? It was right there, on the couch.”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “Are you sitting on it?”

  “No.”

  “Get up.”

  “Really?”

  “For one second.”

  I get up.

  “Ha, I told you you were sitting on it.”

  “Well, look at that.… Hey, when did we buy tangerines?”

  See, when someone else is involved, laziness doesn’t look like Laziness. It looks like Indifference, Presumption, Insensitivity, Hostility—a whole rainbow of things that all sound worse than what it really is—Sitting There Minding Your Own Business.

  Like dishes.

  If I leave dishes in the sink, my wife assumes that I assume I can just leave them there for her. Not true. I assume nothing. I’ll clean them—as soon as I notice them. Or as soon as they bother me.

  Unfortunately, as I’ve mentioned, some things don’t bother me right away. My wife gets bothered sooner. It’s all a matter of timing. Learning each other’s Lag Time; how long you have between Event and Annoyance of Said Event.

  For example, if I use the jar of mustard at nine o’clock, I may not notice that it’s still sitting on the counter until, oh, say—that Friday.

  Now, if my wife notices sooner, does that make me insensitive? I think not. It’s just who we are.

  I would argue that if it bothers you, and you need to put it away, then by all means, put it away. I’m willing to let you do that. I will forgo my own schedule, so that you may honor yours. I will not be offended. Just don’t you be offended and assume I assume, because you’re assuming wrong.

  I’m just Sitting Here Minding My Own Busi
ness.

  The problem is, when two people live together, there is no more Business of Your Own. Your Own Business is closed. You’ve merged and gone public. You have to run everything by the partners. And if there are too many conflicts of interest, the business may go under, freeing the partners to once again open up smaller concerns by themselves.

  Like all businesses, couples engage in endless meetings to discuss areas of management concern and division of labor.

  “You know, we really should call the post office and tell them to hold our mail while we’re away.”

  “We? You mean me, don’t you?”

  “No, I mean we. I didn’t say ‘you.’ I said ‘we.’ You or me.”

  “Oh really? Are you going to ever call the post office?”

  A moment to think. “No.”

  “Then you mean ‘me,’ don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sometimes it works out well, and certain household responsibilities fall naturally to those who like doing them.

  For example, my wife likes to pack suitcases, I like to unpack them.

  My wife likes to buy groceries, I like to put them away. I do. I like the handling and discovering, and the location assignments.

  “Cans—over there. Fruit—over there. Bananas—not so fast. You go over here. When you learn to not go bad so quickly, then you can stay with the rest of your friends.”

  There are things that nobody really likes, but one of you hates more than the other person does.

  For example, someone has to take out the dog in the morning. Now, no one wants to get out of bed. But if you understand my affection for Sitting, multiply it a couple of times and you can imagine my enthusiasm for Lying Down. If I’m lying down, I really like to stay there.

  So this particular task falls, by default, to my wife.

  But there is actually a more complex negotiation at play here. You see, sometimes our beloved dog doesn’t actually make it through the night. We occasionally wake up to find things on top of our carpets that hours earlier were inside our dog. I don’t enjoy cleaning this up. But my wife hates it. I mean, she really hates it. She would rather not continue her life than be involved with this.