My 40th wedding anniversary is quickly approaching.
The day I uttered “I do” is a distant memory, but one that I fondly remember. As I reflect upon the past 480 months, I wonder, what have I learned?
I’ve discerned that men can be both complex and Neanderthal – at the same time. It is epitomized in the male species, no disrespect intended.
My husband has no difficulty in dismantling a car engine and returning it to pristine condition. Yet, on my last birthday, he bought me a set of frying pans, believing that he had done something truly miraculous. The year before, I received a hedge trimmer. Is there a message there? I think you catch my drift.
Men are from Mars. No doubt about it. Their Martian brain is telepathic. Of this I’m sure. They expect women to know what they are thinking and to know what they expect and want. Their Venus counterparts, like myself, will probably never figure them out. Perhaps, we were not meant to.
Case in point. Recently, when visiting a new restaurant, I was given the task of ordering hors d’oeuvres while my husband went to make a call. When our order arrived, everything looked delicious. Since neither of us had eaten Solomon Gundy before (pickled herring), that is what I had selected.
I recall my husband staring at the exquisite display of fish, nuts and Spanish onions, with a bemused expression on his face. “What’s this stuff?” he asked, pointing at the Solomon Gundy. I explained that we should try something new. He retorted, “You know that I can’t eat anything pickled. It doesn’t agree with me,” sliding the dish over to me.
Here is the problem. I had never seen him eat pickled foods before. This is true. He had neglected to inform me of the pickled food//stomach connection. How was I supposed to know? I ended up eating his portion, which was no problem. I loved it. He ordered the smoked salmon instead. A lesson learned.
Other instances worthy of consideration and perusal include driving with my spouse which is an adventure in surrealism. On these journeys, it is I who becomes a modern day version of Beatrice in the Dante’s Divine Comedy. I, with map in hand and carefully orchestrated plans, can most often guide through the most difficult maze to our destination.
Believe me, it’s no easy task. Not with my Martian partner beside me whom insists that, “We don’t need a map. I know where we are.” But of course. How foolish of me. I had forgotten about this telepathic ability, which I’m assuming comes with GPS.
So I suppose, for my own amusement only, I play along for awhile. I nonchalantly peek down upon the map on my lap, realizing that we’re going east when we should be travelling west. It ultimately finalizes in the same manner almost every time. “Why didn’t you tell me I should have made a left or right?” or whatever the case may be. He will then, and only then, resort to my trusted map. I suppose Martians can become misguided at times too, GPS and all, I sigh.
As any woman who has selected a Martian as a mate can attest to, life can be pretty darn interesting. Raising children, some of which may be Martians – so be prepared – is an experience in unrelenting hope.
A Martian father communicates with his children in riddles.”What will your mother say when she finds out. Do you think that’s funny?” he will ask. Or the best, “What am I to think of you?” I suspect that there have been a number of occasions where I didn’t find out what I was supposed to find out. Thank goodness for that.
Martians, when confused by innocent questions from their offspring, will usually send them off to their mother. For divine intervention I’m assuming. He will then ask what “mom” said? Perhaps as a means of learning something their telepathic mind did not already know.
Martians form bonds among themselves, as do women. I do believe, however, that these bonds can easily become frayed and weakened quickly. Martian fishing trips, the male bonding thing, are an enlightening experience.
My husband has gone fishing with his “buddies” only in the hope of landing the biggest fish. If he doesn’t, he becomes childlike with a pouted lip, and the silent treatment. It has something to do with the ‘id’, an inconsolable need to be the best.
The excuses fly, he wasn’t fishing in the right spot or the wind picked up; something totally irrational to my Venus mind. He and his buddies will always remain friends and laugh about it after. But it’s always an endless competition. They must really prize winners on Mars.
There are days when my Martian husband amuses me. There are days when he makes my blood boil. But through it all, I ask myself how I could possibly live without him in my life. We’re the best of friends. And have been for 40 years. So we must have been doing something right on this journey of life.
In the end, I’ve learned that Martians aren’t so terribly different from us Venus people. We just have to learn to incorporate telepathy into our daily lives. Then, and only then, will life be as it should.