Category Archives: marriage
Continued from Part 1
Needless to say, we broke up.
Seven years later, I saw him. We chatted (in real life, not online) for a few minutes and exchanged addresses. I was attending college out of state. For two years, we made casual connection via letters (yes, on paper, written in pen). I tried to explain what I’d meant, all those years ago. He said I did a better job this time.
We were both dating other people.
Life happened. We lost contact again.
During that time, our respective relationships ended. I decided not to date anyone seriously for a year; at the end of the year, I prayed.
“God, if you could send me someone exactly like him, but a Christian…that would be perfect.”
God did one better.
A year later, we were dating, doing our best to follow God. Together.
I wanted to marry him when I was thirteen. I wanted to marry him nine years later. When he asked me, on Christmas Day, I couldn’t speak.
We’d discussed engagement and even picked out a ring but he fooled me. “Let’s wait to get engaged until you finish your Master’s degree.” Next year.
Then he bought the ring, created an elaborate, beautiful scavenger hunt and asked me to marry him. I was so shocked and overcome, I stood with my mouth open, gasping like a landed bass.
When he’d waited long enough to be concerned, he asked, “Are you going to answer me?” With one word, I gave him my whole heart, forever.
A year later we tied the knot. Jumped the broom. Got hitched. Smashed the glass.
Best. Decision. Ever.
Feed Him before Midnight
Learning the rules of cohabitation is one of the most important lessons in marriage. Food guidelines are especially important to communicate.
Determined to get it right, I cooked elaborate meals upon arriving home each evening.
- we both worked long hours (7 pm or after) and
- Hubby had hypoglycemia; he needed to eat frequently to maintain sugar levels.
We rarely dined before 8:30 pm, and often ate much later. When Hubby breezed through the door around 7 pm and made himself a PB&J, I took offense. My homemade chunky pasta sauce wasn’t worth the wait?
Hindsight, and all that. I should have prepped meals to pop in the microwave, enabling us to eat earlier.
As it was, we had a daily tiff about the sandwich because I saw it as a personal affront to my culinary skills. He just needed to eat something. Anything. For a while, he acquiesced to my inane request and waited for dinner. During which time I made the acquaintance of Mr. Hyde (also known as Hungry Hubby).
Have you seen the candy bar commercials “for when you’re hangry” (angry because hungry)? It’s a thing.
I learned we could both be happier if I had a PB&J waiting for him. We still ate dinner together. Win-win.
Argument. Screaming match. Fight. Spat. Tiff. Row. Scrap. Knock-down-and-drag-out. Rumpus. Squabble. Brannigan.
Doesn’t really matter what you call it. Our first years were peppered with provocation. We both grew up in…vocally demonstrative…families. Angry? Yell. Mad? Yell. Annoyed? Yell.
The greater our passion surrounding a topic, the higher the decibel level.
I once heard a preacher say, “Church is the only place people shoot their own wounded.” He was wrong.
In the art of war, Hubby and I were Picasso and Van Gogh. We tossed barbed words, insinuations, blame and comparisons like grenades. We wounded each other with abandon.
Sometime around year five (during a lull in the storm), Hubby asked, “Have you ever noticed? We only yell about stupid stuff we blow out of proportion. If an issue is important, we work together to solve the problem.” He suggested we decide to stop screaming. We agreed.
Other than a stint in year seven when we were both acting like idiots (and I’ll admit freely that I was being the bigger idiot), we’ve managed to uphold our arrangement.
One of my proudest moments: last year, a counselor asked our children how they feel when “mom and dad have a big fight.” The kids looked at each other, confused, then said, “Daddy and Mama don’t fight.”
With a condescending grin, the counselor said, “Sure. So…how do you feel when they yell at each other?” The kids shook their heads.
“When they argue,” he tried.
“Daddy and Mama just work together on everything. They never fight,” the kids told him.
Since then, we’ve had a couple arguments (mostly stemming from occasional hormone fluctuations during which time I may become…unreasonable), but overall, we hold to our agreement.
Feel free to steal this idea; eliminating fights is great for the blood pressure.
As I mentioned above, Year 7 was not our best.
We almost broke up for good. Hubby had a bag packed in the trunk of his car. We discussed logistics. He said I could keep the house. I said I’d probably move out of state. We thought we had no options.
It’s easy to feel alone in the midst of a struggle. Even more so when it involves marriage; you’re separated from the person who should be your best friend.
If you’re smart, you don’t involve mutual friends, family members or work colleagues (they’ll take sides, hold lifelong grudges and give bad advice since they have no vested interest, respectively). That means, though, that you experience solitude in the grief.
Thankfully, a slightly older couple befriended us with the intent to mentor us. They could see our struggles; they’d been in similar straits and recognized the signs. Thanks to their care and committed support, we survived.
Help came from two other odd sources:
- Recognizing that a large percentage of our troubles stemmed from my issues, I went to a counselor who looked and sounded like Elmer Fudd, but everything he said made sense.
- Our good buddy freaked out, telling Hubby, “You can’t leave. You’re the only normal married people I know!”
Fight, but not each other.
Another friend told us to be like mules.
“When horses are threatened, they freak out and run around, accidentally kicking each other. Predators can take them down. Mules put their heads together and kick out at the danger. Keep your heads together. Your spouse is not the enemy.”
Here’s what we learned: Love is a choice, not a feeling. Fight for your relationship. Anything worth having comes at a price. We fought—against our own selfishness and desire for an easy out—and won.
If you’re thinking about divorce, this guy has some good advice.
Fight FOR each other.
Our anniversary is February 24.
Wow…45 looooooong years.
Ha, just kidding. 15 years.
Hubby and I are the happiest married couple I know. We have fun together and LIKE each other (there’s an idea) and I can’t imagine being with anyone else.
Okay, I lied. Occasionally I daydream about Wolverine. (Not Hugh Jackman, mind you. Wolverine.) But geez, who wouldn’t? Watch. He’s not wearing a shirt. Tell me I’m crazy.
Disclaimer: if you don’t want to see comeuppance for trying to kill one’s daughter, stop the video at 1:45.
You watched the whole thing, didn’t you. Twice? Shameless hussy.
Since he self-heals, I have a feeling some of that muscled beauty is computer generated. I feel so cheated.
This is about real people.
In addition to being the happiest, we’re also in the running for “Longest Time Hitched to the First Person You Married” award among friends in our age bracket. People sometimes ask us our secret, so I thought I’d share it with you.
- thinking of getting married
- filling out a FarmersOnly.com profile
- recovering from being caught mousing around AshleyMadison (I still can’t believe that’s real)
- a confirmed bachelor(ette)
- a confirmed bachelor(ette) with a Tinder account
this advice will change your life.
Or it will give you yet another reason to say, “Thank God I’m not THAT screwed up.”
Either way, I’m happy to help.
Ways to Stay Married for
40 15 years
Begin with a memorable encounter
Rain forced P.E. classes into the gym; the teachers called, “Run ten laps and then you can sit with your friends!” I still remember the sound of sneakers slapping and squeaking on the gym floor. Thankfully, this memory has no smell. “Sweaty teen” is one of my least favorite odors.
Not “like yesterday” but still very clear: I jogged around the corner closest to the padded grey wall under the basketball hoops. Home stretch; one more side, then I could relax.
I hit the wall. Hard. Not of my own volition. I heard a chuckle as he trotted away.
“That jerk pushed me into the wall. He’s gonna pay.” I sped after him, tomboy that I was, fully intending to pound him. Or at least give him a good punch in the shoulder. He turned, grinning. I reconsidered.
I was thirteen (he thought I was fifteen). He was sixteen. I was in ninth grade; he was in tenth. He was the sweetest, most respectful guy I’d ever met. And he had great biceps (still my favorite). No doubt in my mind: we were going to grow up and get married.
He asked me out. I said yes. We held hands.
Then I told him to go to hell.
Tell him to go to hell
I didn’t just grow up in the buckle of the Bible Belt; I lived on the prong. Everything in my life revolved around Christianity. We attended a very conservative, legalistic church. When the doors were open, we attended. I never felt a connection with anyone my age and often felt “not good enough.”
Sometime during my elementary years, a young lady visited the church wearing jeans and leather—typical 80’s style. An older lady approached her and said, “honey, you need to dress properly for church.” The girl never returned.
I knew this was wrong. By the time I met Hubby, I knew I could never invite him to our church. His family didn’t attend church (strike one) he rocked a mullet (strike two) AND he listened to ROCK MUSIC (you’re out).
None of those are Hubby, but this page could have been from our yearbook.
So then, I went to Bible camp. At camp, we learned that we should only date other Christians because then we’d have similar goals. If I wanted to go to South America as a missionary (and I did) but married a guy who didn’t see the point, things could get sticky. The speaker noted that generally you only marry people you date, so it makes sense to date people you could marry.
I was heartsick, knowing we didn’t see eye to eye. I decided to write him a letter to try to explain. Perhaps, I thought, he might decide to also be a Christian.
Being a socially inept fourteen-year-old did not help my communication. I didn’t realize how my letter came across: “hey, I just found out you’re going to hell.”
I do not recommend this as a relationship tactic.