Couplehood Read online

  “You’re a bad person.”

  “That’s what I thought—wanted to make sure.” But someone always gets hurt in these conversations.

  “I had a bowl of cereal and two fat-free cookies.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “I can’t believe I ate so much.”

  “But the cookies were fat-free.”

  “Yeah, but I ate two.”

  “Well, you look great.”

  “I’m stuffed.”

  “So we won’t eat anything tonight.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can eat.”

  With someone you love, food becomes politics.

  We’re in a restaurant and I’m about to eat a big fried piece of something crusty, and my loved one, very discreetly, gives me the little “Do you really want that?” look. I think, “She’s probably right.” And I pass.

  Later—during the same meal, she orders some Chocolate Sticky Pie of Death, and I, in the most loving tone I can muster, step into the ring with “Sweetie, are you going to be upset later if you eat that?”

  She looks at me for a long time, tells the waiter to go away, and then flings one of those really big spoons at my throat.

  I say, “Hey, wait a minute, you said the same thing to me.”

  She says, “Yeah, ’cause you don’t mind.”

  “Right, because you said it out of Love. Out of Concern.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, if I say the same thing to you, wouldn’t you naturally assume that I—”

  “It’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I mind.”

  You see how it works? There are different eating rules for each of you. But, again, you don’t know what they are until you’ve broken them.

  We’re out for dinner, the food comes, and I jump in. I grab the pepper thing and put some pepper on the food. I start eating.

  And I notice I’m getting the look. I’ve done something wrong. I look up. “What?”

  She skips the specific and goes straight to the general. Very sweetly: “Let me make it easy for you: If you ever have something, anything at all, please see if I’d like some.”

  I said, “Did you want pepper?”

  She goes, “No, but I might.”

  “But you didn’t actually want—”

  “It would be nice of you to think of me.”

  “Okay, I understand that, but just to clarify about the pepper—you don’t want any.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “You’re not interested in pepper.”

  “Not this time.”

  See? We were just setting the rules for next time.

  Sometimes you have to make up rules as you go along.

  Example:

  My bride is trying to not eat meat. I try to be supportive.

  “Do you want me to not eat this chicken in front of you?”

  “No, no, it’s fine.”

  “ ‘Cause I don’t want you to be tempted and then eat it and feel bad about it.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And I don’t want you to make me feel bad about eating meat.”

  “No, no, I won’t.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Eat the chicken.”

  Fine. So I’m eating the chicken, and I notice she keeps watching me eat.

  I say, “What?”

  She picks up my plate and with a real sad face says to my food, “I’m sorry people eat you, Mr. Chicken.”

  “Hey!”

  “What?” she says.

  I say, “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  I had to think for a second, then came up with, “Don’t apologize to my food while I’m eating it.”

  Isn’t that sad? That was the best rule I could think of. In case it ever came up again, and we needed to refer to a mutually agreed upon bylaw, I decreed that from that point forth, “Thou shalt not apologize to my food while I’m eating it.”

  That should pretty much cover it. With, of course, the universally accepted sub-clause: “And don’t call my food ‘Mister.’ ”

  How

  Are

  You?

  I just cleaned out my address book.

  My wife pointed out I had names in there I haven’t called since third grade. People who’ve moved off the continent, couples who have divorced, some remarried, and a few names that, frankly, I don’t even know who they are. There was one entry that just said, “Rusty.” And next to it, “Call after five.” For the life of me, I have no idea what this means.

  Certain letters in every address book fill up right away. “M” and “S,” for example. Very popular letters. There’s no room. You can’t get anyone new in there—there’s a waiting list of three, four years. If I meet someone whose name begins with “M” or an “S,” I tell them right up front that we can’t be friends. I just don’t have the room.

  Whereas “X,” “Q,” and “Z”—I can move you in today. I’ve got nothing but space. And I’m dying to use those pages. My dream is to meet the Xylophone family and fill that section right up.

  There’s something very satisfying about starting a new address book. It’s like a new calendar: all fresh, clean, and full of boundless potential.

  I’ve noticed that as I get older, I buy next year’s calendar earlier and earlier. There seem to be more Things to Do, and we need more time to plan them.

  When you’re a kid, you don’t have this problem—you’ve got nothing to do. You can buy a calendar in March, April—there’s no real rush. You remember your first calendar? One appointment: “See that? That’s my birthday. Otherwise, I’m free. I’m absolutely open till the fifteenth.”

  But the older you get, the harder it seems to be to make the simplest of plans. I bumped into a friend of mine running out of an elevator the other day.

  “Hey, how ya doin’? Everything good? You’re good? Family is good? Kids are good? Good. I’m good, everything is good.”

  We just bombarded each other with “goods.” “Everything’s good? Good. I’m good, you’re good. It’s good we’re all good.” There’s no time for details, just headlines. “Anybody we know of die? No? Good. So everybody’s good? Good.”

  Some people actually tell you how they are, and you might not want to know.

  “How are you, good?”

  “Actually, I’m just getting over an intestinal virus.…”

  “Oh my, look at the time! I thought I could squeeze in a flu story, but it turns out, I can not.”

  It’s not that we don’t care about our friends. We care, we just don’t always know what we’re supposed to say.

  “How’s everything, good?”

  “I just lost my job.”

  “Ohhh …” You stand there a little while. Silence. Then try and pick things up.

  “But everything else is good? Family? How’s the family? Everybody good?”

  “They’re all sick.”

  “Really.…” Check your watch, try again.

  “But you seem healthy. Physically, how’re you doing? You doing good?”

  ‘Three weeks to live.”

  “Alrighty.…” Then you put down your bags, ’cause you’re in for a while.

  With some people, you can tell by the way they ask that they don’t really care. Listen to how they say, “How are you?” They don’t really say, “How are you?” They say, “How are ya?” Not the same. They hit the “are” and shortchange the “ya.” “How are ya … how are ya?”

  Do you understand the difference?

  “How are you?” is good.

  It’s all about you. “How are YOU? I’m interested in specifically you. Out of all the people in the world, how is it to be you? That’s what concerns me primarily—how you are.”

  “How are ya?” is not the same thing.

  “How are ya?” means “Just say ‘good,’ and walk away. I don’t really want to know. Register that I asked, then proceed not to tell me.”
r />   And sometimes people assign you to be greetings messenger. I don’t pass on greetings when people tell me to. I don’t need the pressure.

  You see a friend, they say, “When you see Alan, tell him I said, ‘Hi.’ ”

  Right, sure.

  Problem is, if you say, “Hi” to Alan, he goes, “Oh, you saw Joel? Tell him I said, ‘Hi.’ How is he doing?”

  Now I’ve got to run back to Joel, “Alan told me to tell you ‘Hi’ and wants to know how you’re doing?”

  “Oh, did you see him? How’s he doing?”

  Why don’t the two of you get together and leave me out of it? I have things to do.

  But my friend and I did promise to get together.

  So, he calls me, and the first thing we have to decide is what meal we’re talking about. Socializing invariably involves food, and often, a bona fide meal. Because you need the focal point. You can’t just walk back and forth between two trees and chat. How would you know when you’re finished? That’s why you need food.

  At least a hot beverage and a muffin. This way, if the conversation drags, you have something to talk about. “Ooh, that’s good coffee.” (Which offers more potential than “Boy, look how far apart those two trees are.”)

  Sometimes your days get so busy, you have no actual meal open. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are taken, so you go for quasi-meals.

  “How about drinks at five?”

  If that doesn’t work, you have to start making up new meals.

  “We’ll have peanuts at noon.”

  “Corn chips at three.”

  Unfortunately, this is another case where you have to let some friends go.

  “It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s just that there are no more food groups left. We could do Oysterettes at three-thirty, but what’s the point, really?”

  That’s what’s great about Coffee.

  It’s the only meal for which the name of the food is also the official name of the event. “Coffee.” “We’ll get together for Coffee.” We know what we’re doing, and we know what we’ll be having: coffee.

  Makes it simple when you get there.

  “Do you want to look at a menu?”

  “No, I already know: coffee. That’s why we got together. We got together for—Coffee. That’s what we discussed, that’s what I’ll be having.”

  It’s the only food that has that advantage. You never say, “Let’s get together for lamb.”

  “I’m in town, let’s get together for Fresca.”

  “Whattya say? Grapes for everyone.”

  You never hear it. It’s just not the same draw as Coffee.

  I love coffee. I don’t drink coffee, but I love it. I drink tea, and I don’t like it. That’s my life in a nutshell, ladies and gentlemen, I consistently drink a hot beverage I don’t enjoy.

  Let me say something about tea. Tea starts bad and never gets better. You put in honey, cream, sugar, lemon, and you still go, “Ooh, that’s bad!”

  And the people who make tea know it’s bad. That’s why they give you so many choices. You go into a store, there’s a thousand types of teas. Every herb, fruit, and spice in every combination. They’re desperate to make this stuff palatable.

  And it almost works. You think, “Wow! Look at this! Apple Cinnamon Mango Cherry tea. This should be good. I like all of those things. This is going to be just great.”

  You take a sip and go, “Nope. That’s still very bad.” I don’t know how they go wrong with that, but they do.

  So, when a waitress asks, “How would you like your tea?” I already know.

  “I won’t.” Right off the bat. “I won’t enjoy it, but it’s not your fault. Just bring me hot liquid and a muffin, so I can talk to my friend here.”

  The greatest social food of all time is Chinese food. The whole purpose of this particular cuisine is to share. You get lots of different things, put them in the middle of the table, and you all share. But I find, even with people I like, I can’t stop taking inventory.

  I’m smiling, but I’m thinking, “How many shrimps has he had so far? This fat bastard’s got fourteen shrimps on his plate—two on his fork, three in his mouth that he didn’t even chew yet; that’s like nineteen shrimps. I’ve got three hundred snow peas and a dead noodle.… I can’t even get a fork in there. The man is like a windmill.”

  And when couples go out socially, they’re no longer people. They’re couples. And couples don’t talk like regular people.

  They become teams. Little tag-team storytelling teams. She starts, you finish, you start, she finishes. You correct each other, interrupt each other, and no one knows exactly who they should be listening to.

  Ever been out with four or five couples? It’s like the Conversation Olympics. Whatever subjects come up, every couple has to compete.

  “We had an experience like that, too.” Then you step forward and tell your piteous little tale, and the conversation moves clockwise around the table, everybody telling their version of essentially the same story.

  By the time it gets to the semifinals, it gets very tough. Your story has to be more interesting than the last couple. If Couple Number One lost their luggage in Mexico, Couple Two lost their luggage and their passports.

  Couple Three has to beat that. “We lost our luggage, our passports, and our … house was stolen, too. And our children! The whole family, everything. We called American Express and we got new kids the next day … two girls and a boy, so it worked out well—but for a while there, we were quite alarmed.”

  Sometimes your team has no story. You have to huddle frantically with your partner: “Honey, Honey, quick—do we have anything like that? Airport, luggage—anything? Remember you lost that comb that time? Is there anything in that? … Come on, hurry up, we’re next. THINK, man, THINK. Okay, we’re up.” Big smile. “Yes, we had the same thing happen to us … this was three years ago.…” And you’re off and running.

  Sometimes you’re in the middle of your story, you look around the table, and you realize—nobody’s listening. They’re talking amongst themselves, paying the check … And you’re thinking, “Am I the dullest person in the world? What happened here?”

  And then, the saddest moment in the world: You look at your wife and discover she’s listening. She, who’s heard the story a thousand times. But, God bless her, she doesn’t have the heart to let your story plummet like a boulder. So she sits there pretending she’s interested. And what’s even more pathetic is you continue to tell her. You don’t want to stop.

  “You know, we once … anyone listening? You know, we once had a thing … in Florida, actually … We were in Florida”—and you turn right to your wife—“Honey, remember in Florida, that time? The cabdriver at the airport …”

  And finally she leans in discreetly and says, “You can stop now, nobody’s listening. You don’t have to amuse me.”

  “But I was trying to amuse them”

  “But they’re not listening.”

  “I listened to their stories.”

  “I know, honey, I know …”

  When you’ve been together long enough, you know each other’s stories. That’s why a lot of times you see couples in their eighties sitting and not talking: They’ve heard everything. They know. “When we got married, I told you everything I had done up to that point. And since then, you were there. What could I possibly tell you? … What happens if we don’t talk? Can we try that? Could we just read? And if we read something interesting, we’ll talk about that. Whaddya say?”

  People who get married later in life have that great advantage. “Hey, baby, I’ve got stories till we die. Things I haven’t even hinted to you about. Did you know I went to junior high school with FDR? That’s right. Sweet fella. I was going to tell you later.”

  Tonight

  We’ll See

  a Movie,

  Tomorrow

  We’ll Kiss

  It just so happens that in life there are the exact same number of people who like olives as
people who don’t. And they usually end up together.

  No one knows how this works.

  But next time you’re in a restaurant, look around. Someone who can’t stand olives will accidentally get some, and the person they’re with will say, “I can’t believe you don’t like olives,” and happily eat their olives.

  See, a lot of things are that much simpler when you’re a couple. Like ordering food. Couples develop their own strategies.

  “Here’s what we do. I got it, I got it—I got it.…Here’s the plan. I’ll get the chicken, and you get the salmon, and that way we’re covered.”

  That’s another big plus about being Two instead of One. There are two dishes, so if one of you makes a mistake, there’s always Backup Fish.

  “I’ll get the chicken, and then, if it stinks, I’ll eat your salmon.… What? If yours stinks? Well, then you got a problem, ’cause mine turned out pretty good. Hey, nobody told you to order bad. Live and learn.”

  Going to a movie is easier, too. Couples are good at this because you can split up the responsibilities.

  “Honey, I’m gonna park the car, you get out and buy the tickets—I’ll meet you on line.” Everybody has a job.

  It’s a military operation, and the two of you are a precision drill team.

  “Okay. You get on the ticket buyers’ line. I will park the car, come around the northwest corner, and get on the ticket holders’ line. I’m at the ticket holders’, you’re at the ticket buyers’. Now, at nineteen hundred hours, the doors will open, and I’ll have to move out. My regiment’s leaving. If I don’t have tickets in hand, we’re dead. Get me those tickets. Now cover me—I’m going in!”

  Of course, this type of expertise doesn’t happen overnight; it takes months and months of Saturday nights to practice. You must each accept that there is a job to be done and sacrifices to be made. There’s no romance involved; it’s all business. “Tonight we’ll see a movie, tomorrow we’ll kiss. Now get out of the car and go go go go GO!”

  Couples just starting out don’t know this. Ever see first-date couples at a weekend movie? No. Because they never get in.