David Chelsea
I recently came across this articlethat first appeared in the New York Times six years ago! While the author reflects on how Shamu (yes,
that Shamu!) gave her insights into a happy marriage, I think her insights also
apply to happy wedding planning. . .
Enjoy!
By AMY SUTHERLAND
NYT / June 25, 2006
AS I wash dishes at the kitchen
sink, my husband paces behind me, irritated. "Have you seen my keys?"
he snarls, then huffs out a loud sigh and stomps from the room with our dog,
Dixie, at his heels, anxious over her favorite human's upset.
In the past I would have been right
behind Dixie. I would have turned off the faucet and joined the hunt while
trying to soothe my husband with bromides like, "Don't worry, they'll turn
up." But that only made him angrier, and a simple case of missing keys
soon would become a full-blown angst-ridden drama starring the two of us and
our poor nervous dog.
Now, I focus on the wet dish in my
hands. I don't turn around. I don't say a word. I'm using a technique I learned
from a dolphin trainer.
I love my husband. He's well read,
adventurous and does a hysterical rendition of a northern Vermont accent that
still cracks me up after 12 years of marriage.
But he also tends to be forgetful,
and is often tardy and mercurial. He hovers around me in the kitchen asking if
I read this or that piece in The New Yorker when I'm trying to concentrate on
the simmering pans. He leaves wadded tissues in his wake. He suffers from
serious bouts of spousal deafness but never fails to hear me when I mutter to
myself on the other side of the house. "What did you say?" he'll
shout.
These minor annoyances are not the
stuff of separation and divorce, but in sum they began to dull my love for
Scott. I wanted — needed — to nudge him a little closer to perfect, to make him
into a mate who might annoy me a little less, who wouldn't keep me waiting at restaurants,
a mate who would be easier to love.
So, like many wives before me, I
ignored a library of advice books and set about improving him. By nagging, of
course, which only made his behavior worse: he'd drive faster instead of
slower; shave less frequently, not more; and leave his reeking bike garb on the
bedroom floor longer than ever.
We went to a counselor to smooth
the edges off our marriage. She didn't understand what we were doing there and
complimented us repeatedly on how well we communicated. I gave up. I guessed
she was right — our union was better than most — and resigned myself to
stretches of slow-boil resentment and occasional sarcasm.
Then something magical happened.
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