When we upgraded our kitchen a few years back I did not choose much. I felt paralyzed by the 235 choices of handles, and tiles, and back splash options. All I asked was for the floor to look like a quilt. John picked the rest. I am not sure if my inability stemmed from family of origin issues. I do not recall a single choice my mother ever made for home improvement. She bought all furniture at garage sales, and left the walls alone. She is gone, so I cannot ask her how she felt about it. Was economics the driving force? Did my dad forbid her to ever splurge on store bought curtains or an unscuffed coffee table? Ah well, at least our food was new.
The faucet John finally settled on has a copper patina look, and has only one handle. Instead of a hot and cold, there is one lever that swivels. Also it does not simply come toward you, like a joy stick, it leans to the right to turn on, and then you adjust temp with the degree of angle. It is hard to explain. When people try to wash their hands in it they are often baffled. One woman looked at me squarely and pronounced it broken.
Another friend was washing up a few dishes after our dinner together and asked which way was hot and which was cold. The cat had my tongue. I could not recall. Although I had used the sink for three years, it had become habit, and I could not immediately articulate it. I am sure she thought me a feeble woman, unable to describe how to use my own sink.
The book
For Men Only spells out some of the common miscommunications between men and women. The author reassures men that when their wives spill out their problems, it is not a directive to fix them. He reminds men to treat their marriage with the same intentionality they do in their jobs. He promises that when a woman says no to sex it does not mean a rejection of him personally, even though it feels that way. It's hard to explain.
Before we read this book, many of the interactions between John and I were broken. I would say what I thought were the right words and no love came squirting out. Or he would leap into solutions before my tales of woe had died on the breeze. This book and its companion,
For Women Only, have opened up the channels between us. I realize that neither of us is malfunctioning. Rather we did not quite comprehend the mechanics of how the other person works.
Feel free to borrow it from our library. Come on over, and you can even wash your hands in my sink.
