Walking Dumpster Fire

About a year ago, I was visiting my longtime friends in Arizona and staying with one of my favorite couples, Becky and Tare. I have known Becky longer than I have not known her. She is one of my people; she is a part of me.

Through the years, I had watched Becky make horrible decisions regarding men. Men who wanted to control her, men who put her down, and men who didn’t deserve a single fiber of her amazing Becky-ness. Men, who, if I ran into today, would get a swift bat to the shins.

Then she met Tare. I love this man. I love him because of how much he loves my friend. He doesn’t love her for who she could be or what he wants her to be; he loves her for who she is. Being in the presence of this couple is fun. They laugh, have inside jokes, and really enjoy one another. It’s refreshing to watch.

So I am at their home, and Becky and I are sitting on the couch, half watching TV and half talking about all the stupid and fun adventures we have gone on together when Tare walks through the door. Becky immediately gets up from where she is sitting, runs over to him, throws her arms around him, and gives him a welcome home kiss. Then she pours him a drink and asks how his day was. They excitedly chat for a bit, each wanting to know more about the other person’s day. And I sit there staring in awe.

I felt like I had unearthed some hidden secret. I found the magic beans that make a relationship work. This is what everyone should be doing!

Later that day, Becky and I met with our other longtime friend, Lo. I, of course, immediately feel compelled to tell Lo what I had witnessed between Becky and Tare. I share the details with her like it’s the holy grail of relationship advice. I am waiting for her to start taking notes, jotting down everything I am saying, or at least go, “WOW! I need to do that with my partner!” But she doesn’t do any of this. She stares at me and goes, “Carrie, what do you usually do when your partner comes home from work?”

“I give a nod. And sometimes I say hey.”

Becky and Lo stare at me like I just said: I beat puppies, AND I enjoy it. Stunned and concerned. It’s at this moment that I realize: I am the problem.

What struck me the most about the Becky and Tare interaction was Becky’s willingness to behave that way. He didn’t ask her to get up or make him a drink or talk about her day. She did it because she wanted to and knew it would make him happy.

Once I figured this out, my brain exploded. Make him happy? Do something that requires minimal effort from me and isn’t a big deal, but it is a big deal for him, and then do it? Out of the goodness of my salty heart? Thirty-seven years. That’s how long it took me to realize what many people in successful relationships have known this whole time– doing something for them that you wouldn’t do for yourself.

And it’s not that I am super selfish in relationships–well, not always–but I treat my partners the way I want to be treated. After a day of work, I want to come home to a silent house with only my dog to happily greet me. Having someone ask me about my day or even talk to me when I get home sounds like more work. But give me thirty minutes of solitude, and I am good to go. So, I assume this is what my partners want, and since no one has sat me down and said, hey, it would be great if you could act as if you care about my day when I come home or at least acknowledge my presence, I thought I was doing all of us a favor. It’s what I would prefer when I come home.

The golden rule I have for relationships continues beyond my lack of how-was-your-day skills. I have realized it is everywhere in my romantic relationships. My past relationships were clogged with things I didn’t do or like. I don’t like jealousy, so I never get jealous. I don’t like to be nagged, so I don’t nag. I don’t want anyone to have any control over my finances, so I don’t ask them about theirs. I don’t like to be pampered, so I never offer to give a massage. I’m not too fond of musicals, so I will never buy tickets to one to surprise my partner (my ex-husband loved musicals, and not once did we go to one).

It’s as though the part of my brain that’s supposed to know what my partner wants has been shut off. Or it could be a muscle that hasn’t been used for a long time. If I start asking my partner for his wants, I may grow that muscle in the hope that, eventually, I will know what he wants? Can one “muscle memory” horrible relationship skills?

Or maybe I will wait for him to come home and give him my usual nod. You’re welcome, future Carrie!