Was It Something I Said?

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly an innocuous comment or innocent question can derail a perfectly pleasant conversation. Case in point: The other night I casually asked my hubby what plans he had for the check he had recently received for some consulting services he had furnished. Now, I know what you're thinking - there is no such thing as a "casual" question about money. Everyone has their own ideas about how to earn/save/spend it and there are precious few of us walking around that aren't prone to get a little defensive when called upon to justify said ideas. But, honestly, I had no idea what flood gates were about to open. I had no hidden agenda. I wasn't lobbying for a new Coach bag or a day at the spa; I was just curious. Honest.

Let's just say we haven't been talking much since that conversation. He got defensive; I got angry. He got dismissive; I got angrier. His tone of voice finally pushed my retaliation button so hard that I resorted to calling him an a**hole (he was acting like one but I never should have said that) and I ended up slamming a couple of doors and wondering if it was too late to show up on my parents' driveway.

When I finally calmed down, I couldn't help asking myself, "What the hell just happened?" One minute we were happily chatting as he brushed his teeth and I paged through the latest Entertainment Weekly and the next minute we were in a battle worthy of a Bill O'Reilly smackdown. Did I ask the question too late at night? (Possibly. It's not his favorite time of day.) Did I invade his territory, implying that I knew better what to do with the money than he did? (I don't think so. Like I said, I wasn't looking to get my hands on any of it although he might not have heard it that way.) Was he just having a bad day? (Made even worse by a nagging back and/or wife?) Or was it just a combination of the above?

Who knows? The only thing I do know is that I have had an epiphany. I am never going to react that way again. I am never going to call my husband (or anyone else I love) a nasty name of any kind. (I can't promise I won't occasionally think it but that's a subject for another blog.)

I realize I've been married for thirty-one years and it might have been advantageous to have come to this conclusion a little earlier but wisdom comes with aging as surely as the achy knees, right? So, from this day forward, I promise to take a deep breath, say a prayer and then, after calmly telling him that I do not appreciate the way he's speaking to me, I'm going to walk away. I might end up in Indiana before I cool off but I refuse to put myself in another situation where I say things I'm going to regret.

Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if I can actually do it.

Something Special

Last week, in the hallowed pages of People magazine, I read an article about Hilary Duff. If you don't know who the heck she is, you're probably over thirty and don't make a habit of tuning in to the Disney channel. Anyway, she's out there promoting a new television series as well as speaking "candidly" about the break-up of her marriage. Recalling the recent "conscious uncoupling" of another Hollywood couple, she goes on and on about how she and her husband had given it their best shot, realized they weren't who they used to be, and decided to part as friends. All very civilized (although I'm pretty sure their three year-old son won't see it that way); all very honest and mature; all very hard-fought (they did make it to their fifth anniversary, after all).

So why did I find her words so infuriating?

As someone who's been married for more than three decades, I can safely state that my husband and I are no longer who we used to be. (Thank God). I can also confirm the fact that we have fallen in and out of love with one another at least 187 times. If we had thrown in the towel during any one of those "down" times (and believe me, I thought about it once or twice), who knows where we would be today. He might be tooling around Europe with some supermodel and I might be sharing a fireplace chat with that handsome devil I met on that Our Time dating site but that's beside the point. And even if we had managed to carve out some new lives for ourselves, I know one thing - we'd be all the poorer for it.

This week, my parents will celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary. Yes, you read that correctly. Sixty-five. When they said "I do", there was no such thing as TV, women still did their housework in dresses, and the civil rights movement was still a decade away. They have survived countless changes of address, the ups and downs of parenthood, various illnesses, and retirement. They have remained partners for more than six decades for one simple reason - because they wanted to; because they never even imagined an alternative. They had stood in front of family and friends and said "forever" and they meant it.

Yesterday, when our family celebrated this monumental achievement, it didn't take much for any of us to realize how grateful we were that they hadn't "given it their best shot" and walked away. As we poured over photographs of their life together, all of us who owed our very existence to their partnership couldn't help but be in awe of the rich history they had created; of the amazing tapestry of their life spent loving (and every now and then hating) one another.

Together. Through it all. For better or worse. Till death do they part.

The First Year

Twenty-eight years ago, I had my first article published in Modern Bride magazine. I was eight and a half months pregnant when I waddled up to the cash register with the proof that someone other than my family actually thought I could write. The look on the cashier's face was priceless, I have to say. I shouldn't have said anything (except maybe that I was stopping next to pick up my veil) but I couldn't resist offering an explanation of why someone in my condition was purchasing a bridal magazine. Funny. He wasn't all that impressed when I pointed to my name in the table of contents. Maybe that's because he was all of seventeen and some crazy pregnant lady was losing her mind over an article called What a Difference a Year Makes. (Not my title. I wanted to go with something pithy like "Marriage Year One" or "Who the Hell Are You Anyway?" but those control freaks at Modern Bride wouldn't hear of it).

The reason I'm dredging up ancient history is today is my daughter's (the one that was with me in Aisle 4) first wedding anniversary. As I searched my filing cabinets for a copy of my insightful piece to share with her, I couldn't help wondering if she would even be able to relate. I was thirty when I got married. She was twenty-seven. So far, not too dissimilar. She moved into an apartment a few miles from both sets of in-laws. I moved across the ocean with no support system in sight. She got pregnant on her honeymoon. I, despite appearances mentioned earlier, didn't add a child to the mix for three years.

But as I read it, I realized that the first year of marriage, no matter what the circumstances, holds the same challenges now as it did then. Granted, I didn't have to adjust while dealing with a boatload of raging hormones but both of us had to learn to accommodate our new spouses, our new surroundings, get used to living 24/7 with another human being, juggle two jobs, and come to terms with two sets of different expectations. As Andy Rooney once said, "No one ever said that marriage was easy. And if anyone ever did say it, and I missed it, they were wrong."

Not easy. Definitely not easy. But so worth it.

Happy Anniversary, sweetie.

Just You and Me, Kid

My husband used to travel for business . . . a lot. He would often be gone for 2-3 weeks at a time negotiating deals in Hong Kong or sizing up a possible acquisition in Jaipur while I busied myself signing the kids up for Park District swim classes or attending middle school band concerts. Don't try this at home but we even lived apart for longer than I care to admit when he finished up an assignment in Germany and, later, took a job in Virginia that he feared might not work out long enough to uproot the kids. Even when we were clever enough to be living in the same zip code, my hubby tended to be one of those Type A personalities who worked fourteen hour days and weekends. Long story short - we spent a lot of time apart.

Lately, not so much. For the last year, my better half has been working out of a home office, establishing a media business as well as trying to get some consulting projects off the ground. We've gone from being separated by an ocean to being separated by nothing more than a staircase. It's great to have him around more but, now that we're the only two people living in the house, it's also an adjustment.

As newly-christened empty-nesters, we're bound to hit a few speed bumps as we try to re-invent our relationship while we each try to re-invent ourselves. Whether it's taking a walk around the block or making a spontaneous trip to McDonald's for one of those $ .49 cones, we're in the early stages of converting our routine into something that resembles the one we signed on for when we said, "I do". Hopefully, we can avoid the pitfalls of other long-time married folks who found out they had nothing to say to each other once the kids hit the road. Since I still find my hubby one of the smartest, funniest, most challenging people I know, I doubt I have to worry about that one.

But trying to interrupt me after the new People magazine is delivered? That could be a deal breaker.

My Valentine

When you've been married for more than thirty years, Valentine's Day doesn't always get the attention that it used to get. Those expensive dinners, long-stemmed roses, and two pound boxes of chocolates are nice memories but I have to admit, I like the pressure being off. It feels good not to have to succumb to the madness of picking out just the right $5.95 Hallmark ditty or think of something heart-shaped that my husband will actually want to use. (I scoured Home Depot to find tools with heart embellishments and came up empty and "Be My Valentine" boxers are definitely not my guy's style.)

So what does it say about us that this year Valentine's Day went relatively uncelebrated? For the first time, we did nothing on the actual day - no card, no flowers, no nothing. And do you know what? It was one of the best ever. The night before, we ventured out into the cold (because only those trying to impress or don't mind waiting for hours and dropping a couple days pay go out to dinner on the real Valentine's Day, right?) to have dinner at our local Olive Garden. Say what you will about the place, you get a lot for your money. We tried a couple of their new specials (the Parmesan crusted tortellini actually tasted very similar to a dish I had in Italy so all you Olive Garden haters can bite me), shared a quartino of wine (Chianti Riserva, if you're wondering. Good but gave me a headache. Next time will stick to the Shiraz or Malbec), and polished off a piece of the should-be-illegal white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.

If all of this sounds like we're getting old, we are. If all of this sounds like we've given up, we haven't. It was a really sweet evening of conversation about our kids, memories of our travels together, and making plans for our future.

And if that's not celebrating Valentine's Day, I don't know what is.

One Beautiful Bride

I am now a mother-in-law. Yesterday, my little girl, the one who used to dress up in Belle's ball gown and Dorothy's ruby slippers, stepped into her own fairytale dress and walked down the aisle to say yes to her Prince Charming.

It wasn't your typical wedding. The "church" was a multi-purpose room decorated by the hands and hearts of family and friends. The "after party" was held at the church center and included a homemade cake and champagne followed by a little dancing and fellowship. The "reception" was an intimate dinner for thirty-five at a local Italian restaurant instead of an over-the-top banquet hall extravaganza for 250.

It was nothing like I once envisioned and so much more than I could have ever imagined.

Our girl didn't need all that other stuff. She got exactly the day she wanted, simple and personal and every bit as special as she is. She walked down the makeshift aisle with a smile that wouldn't quit. She glowed as she promised to forever love and honor the grinning young man at her side. She sat at the piano (yes, she did) and sang a love song she had written for her new husband and brought the entire room to tears.

My husband and I could do nothing but look on with pride and more than a few sniffles. After a rough couple of years, our daughter was happy; truly and completely happy. She sailed through the rest of her big day with ease and grace. Through it all, I never saw one minute of doubt; one shred of nerves; one iota of stress. Unlike a lot of brides, she enjoyed every minute of the day and she did her best to make sure that everyone else did too.

While she and our new son-in-law are off on a well-deserved honeymoon in the Mexican sunshine, my husband and I are trying to catch our breath. But it's going to take more than a day or two to get used to this new reality - the one where our child is gone for good. Oh, we know she'll be back for dinner on a regular basis; we know she'll be back to "borrow" that black sweater with the silver buttons but it won't ever be the same. This is it. After years of teaching, caring, and worrying we've finally arrived at the day that we knew was coming; the day we have to relinquish our child to someone else.

The only thing that makes it easier is knowing that she just may have found someone who actually deserves her.

The Better Part of Valor

I use this forum for lots of reasons, not the least of which is to share what I've learned after thirty years of marriage. So here goes. I hate to burst anyone's bubble but to all you engaged or newly married readers out there - spoiler alert - I have to tell you, whether you choose to believe it or not, you will wind up keeping a few secrets from your beloved spouse. I'm not talking about the big, hairy, headline-making-Dr. Phil kind of secrets like "I had an affair with my husband's grandfather" or "I shoplifted enough items to open my own boutique", I'm talking about the "what he doesn't know won't hurt me" kind of secrets; the ones that don't do any real damage but save a lot of unnecessary (not to mention unpleasant) conversation.

For instance. The other day we were out shopping. My dear husband (henceforth referred to as DH) had come along to keep me company as I purchased a Father's Day gift for my DF (I might as well keep the stupid acronyms going). Okay, his presence may have had something to do with the fact that I was going to one of his favorite electronics stores but, nevertheless, he dropped what he was doing to hang out with me.

After finding an inexpensive MP3 player that I hoped would replace the Walkman that my dad currently employs when he mows the lawn, I left my husband browsing while I hit the cashier's line. When I reached into my purse for my one-and-only credit card, it wasn't there. Panic set in. I tried to remember when I had last used it and where I could have possibly put it. I'm not known as the most organized person (I may have mentioned that once or twice) but I always put this particular card  in the first slot of my wallet and now it was gone.

I switched to Plan B, pulled out my debit card, and put on a game face when my DH asked if I had paid. I knew I had two choices - tell him about the missing card, in which case I would have to listen to a rather lengthy lecture about my carelessness and an urgent insistence that we call the credit card company to cancel our card, or say "yep, all set" and get my ass home as quickly as possible to look through every pants pocket in my closet.

Guess which one I chose?

You'll be relieved to know that within the hour, I had found the card in a pair of shorts I had worn the day before. No harm, no foul. And if you're sitting there thinking you would have done it differently, I have to ask you. Do you honestly think you'll always tell your husband the price of that dress you bought for your cousin's wedding? Or what exactly you did when you had a couple of margaritas with your girlfriends? Or how you feel every time you watch Ryan Reynolds in Just Friends?

Liar.

63 and Counting

I know this is supposed to be a blog about stepping gracefully away from full-time motherhood but my wandering mind doesn't always stick to the rules. And since I'm the one sitting down to type the damn thing, I think I have to write about the spirits that move me and tonight I'm thinking a lot about the institution that got me into this whole motherhood thing in the first place. That's right. . .tonight I'm thinking about marriage and what a tough, impossible, challenging, rewarding, wonderful little sucker it can be.

April 22nd, 1950. A pound of hamburger cost thirty cents. A gallon of gas was a little more than half that and a new car to put it in could be had for $1500. It was also the time when a couple of crazy kids decided to get married. They had known each other for all of six months. He had turned twenty in February and she left her teenage years behind the day before her wedding. Their reception was catered by friends and they honeymooned in a leaky, cold cottage in Wisconsin.

April 22nd, 2013. A pound of hamburger costs $3.69 on sale (unless you're into that organic, non-antiobiotic variety which might have you reconsidering the merits of vegetarianism). A gallon of gas is now hovering around the $4 mark. And a new car. . .well, let's just say that when I helped my son buy his used car recently, the salesman told me we wouldn't be able to get anything for less than $10,000.

And what about those two crazy kids. . .the ones I left back in 1950? They made it through it all - sixteen Presidential elections, a stint in the military, a couple of kids, several job-related moves, women's liberation, and more than a few economic downturns. They argue about what happened when and who said what to whom. They finish each others' sentences and they share dinners at Olive Garden. They show up at as many family events as their tired bodies allow and still manage to get in a round of golf or a few hours at the casino. They also bring more joy, wisdom, compassion and laughter into the lives of anyone lucky enough to hang with them than any two people on the planet . I should know. Those two crazy kids are my parents.And today is their anniversary.

63. It looks good on them.

Am I Now the Guy?

Being in a long-term marriage affords one the opportunity to witness the ever-changing stages of human behavior. I'm not into defining anyone with typical gender-based roles but from my own experience, if you give a man and woman enough time and exposure to one another, they're going to slip in and out of one another's shoes every now and then.

When we started out almost 29 years ago, our roles were fairly traditional. My husband and I both held full-time jobs until the kids came. After that, he made the bulk of the money and I stayed home with our children, taking a few part-time jobs along the way. Our emotional behavior was pretty traditional, too. He said as few words as possible, rarely broke down in tears and approached most of our problems from a rational, logical point of view. I, on the other hand, always wanted to discuss our issues (usually right as he was falling asleep), could be brought to tears by any top 40 country song and dismissed his rational approach as cold and unfeeling. As you can imagine, these differences impeded our communication more than once.

Twenty years ago, my aunt warned me it would all change. She and her husband were just getting used to retirement when she said to me, "Hang in there. He's going to be a lot different after 55. When his job isn't the be all and end all that it once was, it'll be easier. You'll see, you're going to get yourself a whole different husband."

What she didn't tell me was that he was going to get a whole different wife.

I never would have expected that I would NOT want to talk, that I would enjoy spending time by myself or that I wouldn't need as much romantic affirmation as I used to. I never saw this change coming. The person whose body I now inhabit seems like a stranger. The behavior that I often exhibit seems a lot less loving, a lot less sensitive.

Now I need to have someone tell my husband to hang in there.

A Rose is a Rose

I hate to admit it but last night I wasted a couple of hours of my precious time on earth watching the finale of The Bachelor. Like millions of other misguided viewers I watched as Ben proposed to this season's chosen villianess, Courtney. I told myself I was only watching to keep my daughter company but the truth is, this mindless diversion was infinitely preferable to doing the dishes loitering in the sink or folding the dryer full of rapidly wrinkling laundry.

The show's premise has always been beyond ridiculous but this year's cast was particularly aggravating. The bachelor himself was a bit of a doofus; likeable enough but seemingly born without any real personality. Watching these twenty-five women battle so vigorously to be his bride seemed more false than usual. Most of these women wouldn't have given him a second glance if they'd met up with him at their local watering hole so why on earth were they fawning all over his mop-headed goofiness? My best guess is the more they convinced themselves they were falling for him, the more places they were going to see. By my count the final two got to make out in San Francisco, Belize, Puerto Rico, Panama, and Switzerland. Since most of us get dumped in Chilli's parking lot or sitting at the kitchen table, maybe they didn't make such a bad deal after all.

Like the fool that I am, I stuck around to see the post mortem known as After the Final Rose. Since all the tabloids had enthusiastically reported that the happy couple had already split up, it came as a surprise that they were still engaged. Wow! They made it. Four months after the episodes were taped, surviving a temporary split, they were still a couple. Good for them. But Ben and Courtney, I have only one thing to say.

Call me in twenty-eight years and let me know how it's going.

What Goes Around . . .

Forgive me while I snap out of a major case of deja vu. Conversations with your kids will do that to you. One minute I was sprawled out on my daughter's bed listening to her concerns of the day and the next minute I was being gently reminded that my marriage was woefully lacking in the communication department. Huh? When I finished defending myself, I couldn't help laughing at the irony. Thirty-five years ago I had the exact same conversation with my own mother.

What I couldn't explain to my genuinely concerned daughter (or my twenty-three year old self) was the difficulty of anyone on the outside accurately assessing the state of someone else's marriage. It may look seriously flawed, if not completely broken, to invested onlookers but, in reality may just be going through another one of those temporary bottlenecks commonly referred to as a rough patch by us long time married folks.

My daughter, unmarried as of yet as I was when I had my infamous "let me help your marriage" talk with my own mother, was just trying to help. I know her intentions were completely noble and driven by love for both her wayward parents. Believe me, I can relate. But there's no way she will ever be able to fully comprehend the complexities of marriage until she has one of those rings on her finger for a very long time. No one can.

How can I explain to her that it's okay that we're in a little bit of a rut? It's okay that we're on a little togetherness hiatus. It's even okay that we haven't connected in the romance department for a little while. I know that it's not going to stay this way. I know it's just another one of those breaks in the dance. Like all roads leading to Rome, our mated-for life paths are destined to reconverge sooner rather than later. I just have to give myself the necessary kick in the pants (which isn't even remotely possible with my bad knees) to jump start the process.

I wonder if it's too late to make dinner reservations?

I Still Do

There's nothing like a wedding to get us old married folks to take a look at the state of our own unions. Sitting in the church, watching a young couple take their first steps down that unknown road of marital highs and lows, you can't help wondering if they have any idea what they're getting into. And how could they? No one knows what Paris is really like until they've actually been there no matter how many times they've seen it in the movies.

The priest, a jovial sort doing his best to emphasize the benefits of committing one's life to another human being, encouraged the bride and groom to communicate and compromise. You could see the glowing couple sharing knowing glances and tender touches as the priest continued to dispense his suggestions for the next fifty years of their lives. 'We've got this' their faces said. Maybe. But from the reactions of the longtime marrieds in attendance, who shared their own knowing glances as well as a few tender jabs in the ribcage anytime the priest hit a nerve, it was clear that it wasn't going to be as simple as Mr. and Mrs. Newlywed might think.

I was flying solo at this particular wedding; my better half had a previous commitment. After sitting through dozens of ceremonies during my nearly twenty-eight years of marriage, I've noticed that my reaction to the festivities has varied greatly. During those early years, I eagerly welcomed new members to "the club" with genuine smiles and congratulatory hugs. Later, when things were tough, it was all I could do to refrain from standing up and shouting, "DON'T DO IT. Whatever you think you're feeling, stop while you still can, strap on a pair of sneakers and head for the exit as fast as you possibly can." Then, there were the times when I'd get weepy, bemoaning the fact that I'd never feel that innocent, hopeful love present in couples that haven't yet had to deal with colicky babies, week-long business trips and forgotten anniversaries.

But this time was different. I didn't feel any of those responses. This time, I felt as much joy for myself as I did for the decked out couple walking down that aisle. My husband and I have made it through two kids, overseas moves, job changes, and menopause. We've struggled through financial disagreements, conflicting priorities and the occasional desire to hire a hit man. It hasn't been easy but getting to the place we are now has certainly been worth everything it took to get us here. I'm proud of us. And I wouldn't trade places with the newlyweds, even if I could.

But if they want to hand over those tickets to Cabo, I just might be persuaded to change my mind.

Together Alone

Last night my husband and I had the house to ourselves. Not such an unusual thing these days, what with one of our kids gone and the other one making herself scarce as much as humanly possible. So I quickly changed into my French Maid outfit and we . . . Just kidding. Of course I did no such thing. Who do you think we are? Brad and Angie? No, we took advantage of our time alone in the way that all long-time married people will understand. I sat on the deck happily devouring my latest issue of People Magazine while he dutifully mowed the lawn.

Okay, so we're not the most romantic couple on the planet. Years living apart for weeks at a time may have made us a little too self-reliant; a little too independent. It seems as if we're always heading in different directions, hampered by opposing body clocks and work schedules. When he's in the mood to go out to dinner and a movie, I have to work. When I call to invite him to meet me for lunch, he's in the middle of creating a spreadsheet. Now that we don't have to worry about taking care of two kids, you would think carving out time to be a couple would be a lot easier. You would think.

I did tear myself away from the latest Royal Wedding update to fix us a delicious (not to mention healthy) grilled chicken and salad dinner, which seemed to make him pretty darn happy. We sat on the deck, sharing the events of the day as we admired his lawn mowing artistry. After that, we took a long walk around the neighborhood, commenting on everyone's landscaping skills or lack thereof. Once home, we capped off the evening by firing up the DVR and enjoying the latest episode of The Office.

It may not be everyone's idea of romance. But it works for us.

Round Two

How can a little thing like changing your cable company lead to a major screamfest? All I wanted to do was discuss the possibility of switching to Comcast. Sounds innocuous enough, right? So how did I end up eating my dinner alone?

I may be crazy but, for me, it all comes down to tone. I didn't have a problem with my husband questioning my motivation. I didn't mind that he thought the persistent salesman who came to our door was less than truthful about the product he was pushing. I've been married for twenty-seven years; this kind of thing has come up before. No, what I have a problem with is being talked to as if I'm a child. When anyone takes that 'I know more than you do' tone with me, I tend to tune out whatever comes next. Shocker, huh?

The problem is, he honestly doesn't hear it. He thinks he's just making observations or providing me with necessary information. All I hear is the condescending tone of a know-it-all bully. As I learned in cross cultural training (a program designed to help you understand the linguistic minefields you might encounter living overseas), the source of the trouble resides in our different upbringings. My husband's homeland is big on delivering information. They're not overly concerned about being tactful and they sure don't understand Americans' tendency to sugarcoat everything that comes out of our mouths. I get it. I try to understand it. I just don't have to like it.

Passing the Test

The other day I was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, minding my own business, putting my make-up on when my husband queried, "How can that striped shirt hanging on that hook have sun reflecting off of it?" My second response, (after the initial "Huh?") was disbelief that he was making me think this hard at 7:00 a.m. Still, I took a quick look at the offending shirt. "It must have something to do with the sun bouncing off the mirror over your sink and reflecting off the mirror on your closet door", I said as I swiped the mascara wand across my eyelashes. "Very good", he said. "Just wanted to see if you could figure that out".

Life with my husband is an unending round of Jeopardy. Luckily, he doesn't insist I put my answers in the form of a question but there are times when I feel I've been taking a twenty-seven year SAT test. He doesn't do it in a mean way. He's just curious about everything around him and he can't help himself from quizzing those he loves to make sure they're paying attention. For the first few years, I enjoyed the challenge. I liked proving to him that I was a worthy intellectual partner. Then it started to get a little annoying. Thankfully, we had two children. For the better part of the last two decades, they became the focus of his educational experiments. Now that they're grown, he's reverted back to me and sometimes (like any day before noon), I don't appreciate it as much as maybe I should. God bless him, he does keep me on my toes but I think it's about time for me to turn the tables. The next time he tries to trip me up, I'll be ready. He may know how the internet works but does he know what Khloe Kardashian named her baby?