From Cuddles To Complaints

 "Facts are stubborn things, but statistics are pliable."

Mark Twain

I just heard an interesting statistic. 

     It was one I already knew (and you probably did, too), but I guess Tony Dokoupil from CBS News wanted to start the New Year with unhelpful information. The statistic was that almost half of all marriages end in divorce. 

     I say "almost half" because he gave different examples based on differing facts, roller-coastering those numbers from 35% to 45%, occassionally making pitstops at random digits in between. 

     See what Mark Twain meant by "pliable"? 

     I have no reason to disbelieve that statistic. Myself, I've been married twice, so half of my marriages have ended in divorce. Sadly, what that means is my second marriage will end in another D-word: Death. 

     Hopefully, mine. 

     Not that I'm eager to die. I think of dying the same way I think of sporting events. I don't want to go. However, if one of us has to go, I want it to be me. If my wife were to go shopping to that great Target in the sky before I do, I'd die soon after. Not from heartbreak, but from starvation. 

     Since we're on the subject of marriage, let me give you some advice to help you avoid the other subject we're on, divorce. When you go to sleep, use separate blankets. I'm not talking about separate beds. This isn't I Love Lucy, after all. Separate blankets ensure you won't wake up freezing in the middle of the night while your spouse is comfortably hogging all the covers. By having your own blanket you can determine the warmth-producing quality of it accordingly. On those occasions when your spouse is hot and you're cold, and by "those occasions" I mean every night, you can use a thin blanket while they use a thick one. On those occasions when your spouse is cold and you're hot, you can swap. 

     While you're busy buying more blankets than you should really need, go ahead and buy two tubes of toothpaste as well, because you know your spouse is squeezing it the wrong way. 

     Marriage is about figuring out problems before they become problems. It's also about listening. Mainly, listening to your spouse complain about doing what they don't like to do while they're doing it. The nice thing about listening is using your ears doesn't leave you with the ability to use your mouth. You can't listen and talk at the same time, so while your spouse is busy complaining about something they've complained about a thousand times before, you won't make the mistake of dismissing them with a stupid comment like, "You've told me that a thousand times already." 

     There will be no cuddling later if you say that, my friend, and by "cuddling" I mean... well... you know.  

     Nothing will dampen your spouse's willingness to oblige you with their cuddling favors faster, and by "your spouse" I mean your wife, because men are simple creatures, much like the amoeba, creatures who wouldn't care that an asteroid is about to hit the earth if they're about to get lucky. 

     That reminds me of a time before my wife and I got married. Early in our relationship we used to wake up to morning cuddles. Now we wake up to morning complaints. The lack of quality of our sleep. The aches and pains of our joints. The weakness of our bladder. Still, we listen. And by "we" I mean me.

     I know, I know. 

     Listening is hard. 

     99% of my marriage is probably spent yelling "What?" from a different part of the house. My wife has the habit of saving her most cutting remarks for after I leave the room. The 1% left we spend disagreeing if the trash container in the kitchen is full enough for me to empty. I like to fill the container completely, while my wife is more of a half-full kind of person. I tell her a man's trash-throwing thought process goes from: 

     1) Seeing there's plenty of room left, to 

     2) Knowing there's still space to fit in one more item, to

     3) Wondering just how much trash we can pile on top before it falls over onto our wife's nice, clean floor. 

     For men, filling a trash container becomes a challenge. A challenge that usually ends with our wives yelling at us. 

     My wife gets even with me by constantly rearranging the pantry and cabinets. It’s gotten to the point where if she wants to find me she has no further to look than the kitchen, where I’m standing like Han Solo frozen in carbonite wondering where I should look to find whatever it is I need.

     "You should put the stuff we use most where they're easily accessible," I'll tell her. 

     "If you need something, just ask me," she'll tell me back.

     But what she doesn't understand is I don't want to ask...

     I want to know.