A friend was complaining to me about her husband. She came to my house on a Saturday and sat in the most coveted chair in my living room. I sat across from her on the sofa. She explained that, yet again, her husband did something that made her mad. Her tall stack of grievances was by now blocking her path to happiness; the only way around the stack was to off load a few of those complaints onto me.
Our friendship began in college and endured every stage of life thereafter. It was easy. I happened to marry someone she liked, and she married someone I liked, and we never lived too far apart. We got together often, tended each other’s kids and never borrowed money from each other. We were as solid as a long-running sitcom.
On the surface, my friend married well. People would describe her husband as tall, good-looking and productive. He was indispensable to his boss and handy around the house. In my opinion, he earned his keep very well. My friend didn’t exactly see it my way.
This particular day her complaint involved the furniture in her house. When she wanted a new bed or table, he’d pull out his tools and make it for her. She wasn’t disapproving of the craftsmanship—that was fine. What bothered her was his eagerness to build things or repair things in the home instead of paying attention to her.
“We never talk,” she said. “Why can’t we just buy from the factory showroom and spend more time together?” she wanted to know.
I knew the answer to that: money. They could make their money stretch if he did the building. Plus, it wasn’t entirely true that they never talked. I knew first hand that she was always asking him to build this or fix that, and he was more than happy to turn her wishes into his commands.
When she finished complaining, I did what any good friend would do and offered words of comfort. “I’m a talker,” I said. “I spend a lot of time visiting, like we’re doing now. Take a look around. Notice the condition of my house. My yard is overgrown. That light switch doesn’t work. My car is unreliable. My furniture doesn’t match. This is the home of a talker.”
A different friend once pitched the idea of legalizing plural marriage, only this time around she thought women should have multiple husbands. Instead of more babies, she argued, today’s households needed more breadwinners so families could afford all the modern trappings. I’m sure once a woman fills the important breadwinner slots, a talker or two could squeeze in as husbands No. 6 and No. 7.
For now, the question remains: can my complaining friend have the multi-purpose spouse? I, for one, hope her dream of a more talkative husband comes true. Of course, she’ll have to accept the trade-off—longer conversations mean a shorter honey-do list. But think of the hours he’ll have to share how he feels, something we talkers are prone to do. I think my friend is in for a real treat, if my wife’s experience living with a talker is any indication. Just this morning my wife told me that she loves it when I give her my approval. I believe her, too, because she really emphasized the word “love,” almost to the point of hurting my ears.
Into the Comfort Zone 