Going eight rounds in the living room
Originally published in August 2005, The Daily Sentinel, Grand Junction, Colo.
Lisa is my wife, my soul mate, my perfect match. For 16 years there’s been no one I’m more comfortable with, no one I’m more excited with. She completes me.
Boy, can she be irritating.
Any idiot knows conflict comes with relationships. Lisa and I have been together since 1989, married since 1995, we’ve got two kids – it would be unnatural if we didn’t fight. Sometimes, though … wow.
It often begins in an environment thick with Lisa’s expectations. I congenially roll into the living room ready to stretch out, spend some pleasant time mostly unconscious in the presence of my family, and find out this doesn’t work for her.
She asks me what my plans are. I don’t have any, but to indulge her I try to come up with some. It’s vital to go easy on my poor, overtaxed mind, so naturally I don’t put much thought into these plans. They spill out of my mouth and I await approval that doesn’t come.
Instead, Lisa invites me to try again.
Aha! I’m being tested! My beloved wife is waiting for something and I’m supposed to figure out what it is. Well, my report cards prove I didn’t much care when I was actually being graded on tests, so what makes her think I’m going to try any harder now?
Don’t have any further plans, I say, sinking deeper into the couch. If you have suggestions, feel free to share.Questions start working their way out, piling one on top of another.
What about the girls? They’re bored. How do you propose to get them out of the house so they can burn up energy and not drive you crazy by bouncing around the living room at bedtime? She mentioned two days ago she needs to weed the garden. When will she get time to do that? Our daughters need machetes to cut paths through the yard; who will watch them while she mows? Oh, and have you considered that the children haven’t given her time to go to the bathroom yet today?
I raise my eyebrows as far as they’ll go, then lower them in a scowl and turn slightly to stare down the curtains.
We spend awhile with her talking and me not. If I’m lucky, Lisa won’t need more than a couple of grunts from me while she works out my side of things to my satisfaction and blames herself. If I’m not, she’ll start reaching unacceptable conclusions and I’ll actually have to speak. When I’m forced to participate in these conversations, I slowly build sentences out of one-syllable denials while fantasizing about getting up and stalking out of the house.
Often, while watching me struggle, Lisa can’t take it anymore and tries to retreat. I can be big about these things; I agree it’s all silliness and decide to take out the trash, even though that doesn’t need to be done.
Outside, I yank the lid off the can, fling it like a Frisbee and shred the garbage bag while throwing it away. Then I turn pink with indignation while going after the lid because I don’t want Lisa to see it in the overgrown grass. Back inside, I’m torn between my continuing desire to be lazy and my inability to stop curling my lip.
Lisa has the nerve to notice and call me on it. Then…
Ah, really, no one who has or who’s had a significant other needs the details. Emotions run high, voices get really loud or really quiet. It’s understood the children aren’t stupid, they know things are happening with Mommy and Daddy and their concerns must be taken into account.
Sooner or later, it ends, hopefully with an understanding and almost always with a measure of exhaustion. If we’re lucky, we’ll even feel pretty good and won’t have to do it again anytime soon.