I’ve been married nearly seven years. I know; it’s hard to believe (at least, it’s hard for me to believe because I still think I’m twenty-two years old), but it’s true – seven years! And while seven years of wedded bliss hardly qualifies me as a marriage counselor, this rarely stops me from doling out the relationship advice to anyone who will listen. And my number one secret to a happy relationship? Communication, which is a pretty broad way of saying: ASK FOR WHAT YOU NEED. Because no matter how much you love someone, no matter how long you’ve been together, neither of you has ESP. You cannot read each other’s minds. You have to SAY what it is you expect/want the other to do. Out loud. In words. It’s not exactly romantic, but this is the secret to my marital bliss.
Which is why my actions this past Monday made no sense whatsoever.
So I get into my car after work, and as usual, I call Roger to tell him I’m on my way. I do this primarily to give him a timeframe for wrapping up whatever stupid Xbox game he’s playing. Occasionally I will also use this phone call to ask him to preheat the oven or take something out of the freezer. On this particular Monday, I ask him to take the pork tenderloin out of the fridge. I can hear him rattling around the kitchen, the TV on in the background, and for some reason, I’m suddenly irritated by the fact that he’s already home – probably in his pj’s – and I still have a forty minute commute ahead of me. I’m cranky; I’m hungry; I think I’m getting sick, and I really don’t feel like cooking. In fact, I just want dinner to be magically ready when I walk in the door.
But for some reason, I don’t say any of this. Despite the fact that my husband is perfectly capable of unwrapping the already marinated pork and placing it in the oven with the washed and precut veggies, I don’t ask him to do it. Instead, when he asks, “Do you want me to do anything else?” I simply say “No” and “Love you.” before sliding my cute little red phone closed. But as I let my phone fall to my lap I hear myself shouting, “Well, you could start COOKING, Butthead!”
Forty-two minutes later, I open the door to our apartment to the incredible smell of peppercorn pork and garlic roasted veggies. My perfect husband stands at the oven – hot pad in hand. I stop in my tracks; torn between the urge to tear off my clothes to express my gratification and the desire to tear into the perfectly prepared dinner. Roger looks like my own personal Adonis – peering into the oven, acting all nonchalant about the whole thing. And why wouldn’t he be? It’s not like he can’t cook – he can. But I tend to be a bit of a control freak when it comes to food, so I've accepted the tasks of grocery shopping and cooking. That’s just how we do it. It’s what works for us. Which I guess is why I didn’t ask him to start cooking when I called home earlier in the evening. Because cooking is my nightly task. He doesn’t ask me to hang pictures or program the DVR or take out the dog at night…so I don’t ask him to cook. But on this night, on this magical night, he somehow knew that cooking was the last thing I wanted to do. He knew…somehow he knew…it was almost like he read my mind…
I’m still frozen in the doorway, stumbling over my words of gratitude when it occurs to me – Roger doesn’t have ESP. And as much as he loves me – he rarely does things without being asked. I glance down at the cute little red phone in my hand, and suddenly this moment doesn’t seem so magical.
See, my cute little red phone is not a flip phone. It’s a slide phone. And unlike a flip phone that ends the call when flipped shut, my slide phone does not end the call when slid shut. The call continues until you press the “end call” button or the other person hangs up. This is a flaw in the design, if you ask me, and while I’m fully aware of this flaw in the phone, I wasn’t exactly thinking about it when I launched into my mini-rant in the car (“You could start COOKING, Butthead!”). My face turns red with the realization that my tantrum was possibly – no, probably – heard by my oh-so-perfect husband.
I’m suddenly riddled with guilt, though I’m not exactly sure why. I didn’t do anything wrong, really. Sure, I guess if I wanted him to cook, all I had to do was ask. I didn’t have to act like such a child about it. But on the other hand, he’s acting particularly coy about the whole thing. In fact, I bet he thinks he’s pretty sneaky – letting me think he’s magically read my mind. Making me think he’s this perfect husband. As if! How dare he act like a mind reader who can just make me happy anytime he feels like it?
I can't cope. We’re no more than two bites into dinner before I blurt out, “You heard me right? On the phone?” Roger looks up, feigning confusion. “I don’t know why I said it...or didn't say it,” I continue, flustered. “You’re not a butthead!” I add pathetically before shoving another bite of the delicious pork into my mouth. But the confusion on Roger’s face is genuine, and I immediately regret my need to overanalyze what was obviously a rare moment of marital ESP.
“What are you talking about?” Roger asks, already cracking up at my obvious discomfort with the situation. I launch into my confession, trying to ignore Roger’s smug expression. I’m rarely in the wrong though, so I decide to let him have this little moment.
My sometimes-perfect husband…the occasional mind-reader.
