It's the Simple Acts That Mark Us
For better or worse, but in either case, bring your humor
There’s a reason I asked my kids every day, when they were growing up and had just come home from school, “Did anything make you laugh today?”
I think I was supposed to ask, “Did you learn something particularly interesting or useful?” but even at the start of parenting, I knew that humor was key to maintaining a sane and solid journey through life’s vicissitudes.
And that’s how I approach the differences that mark us: with humor.
Now there are the big meta-issues that can be harder to laugh at. For example:
Do we believe in God?
Do we meditate? Practice mindfulness?
Who are our heroes? Our villains?
What personal goals do we seek that will validate our day-in and day-out efforts?
But then, there’s the small stuff, and that’s the focus of this piece. I will use my husband’s and my differences as Exhibit A, but “marking our differences with humor” can apply to friends, colleagues, and any living creature you engage with.
About that marriage situation…
I load the dishwasher, making sure to cram everything in, even if dishes overlap. I recognize the shoddy disorder.
He loads the dishwasher like the engineer that he is. Size, shape, and water flow are all taken into account. Silverware has an order, too.
His way has a low rejection rate. My way is faster.
I do laundry like it’s a religion — almost daily.
Were he in charge of laundry, my husband would wash clothes when we were down to our last pair of underwear, at which point he would ask himself,
“Do I do the laundry or buy more underwear?”
Six months into our marriage, I understood his inclination, and we horse-traded.
We have both worked in solo businesses for decades, but I handle the feast-to-famine cycle differently. During a drought, I have been known to proclaim that I have just experienced my last project ever. That’s when I sing,
“Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. I’m gonna go eat worms.”
He believes business has cycles. I should know this since I’m the one with the MBA (which I translate to Master of Bsh**t). His philosophy, which he could sing in some made-up melody because he has a beautiful voice, would be:
Do your best, be patient, and recharge your engine for when the business hits.
Yes, his approach is definitely healthier.
I am driven to seek order and cleanliness, no matter my fatigue. In some odd way, the process and its result recharge me.
He says the mess will always be there. Cleaning takes time away from the important task of relaxing. Watching a good sporting event while relaxing supine on the sofa recharges him.
How we answer questions differs.
I might ask him, “Which shoes look better?” and he will pick.
I will then ask more questions about why, and he will look at me as if he has already answered the question.
Because he did.
Topics have a longer duration for me. He solves and moves on.
I can stay on the phone for longer. He can listen better.
In a bad moment, I might finish someone’s sentence because it’s taking so dang long. He never does.
I had a New Year’s resolution to stop finishing people’s sentences. I did that too often to the slow talkers in our world.
I am much better now. That was never his challenge.
And then there are the dogs…
He taught me almost everything about dogs and convinced me to bring furry creatures into our family.
We’ve had two dogs. When we mourned the passing of our first dog, I cried and cried and cried. My husband foresaw what would become our loss and was proactive in convincing me to get another dog.
Teddy entered our family when Nemo was 11, and he was three when we said goodbye to Nemo. Teddy and I grieved together as he would incessantly lick my face.
My husband and I both love dogs, but I treat Teddy like he is one of our kids. My husband treats Teddy like the dog that he is. If Teddy wants my husband’s place on the sofa, he tells Teddy to lie down on the floor, and then gives him a love pat because Teddy understands and obeys.
Me? I squish myself into the corner of the sofa and make room. Teddy should pat me :)
My husband’s way is better.
Thirty-eight years into our marriage, I can say that the differences we broker aren’t about money and usually aren't about kids.
Our differences are in the small acts of daily living. The news we read, the way we cheer up our kids, how we relax, the exercise we enjoy, and our vision about our future come up repeatedly as unique definers of who we are.
Sometimes, our differences can be grating. It’s what I call “the pebbles in our shoes.” Sometimes, we laugh about those pebbles.
Humor continues to be our best medicine, which is why I knew that a rubber duckie in the dishwasher was the absolute perfect image to start this piece. A small adlib of the song follows:
“Rubber Duckie, you’re the one
You make living lots of fun…
Rubber Duckie, I’m awfully fond of you.”
If you can sing or say it and, either way, if you can mean it, you are in a great position to celebrate the pebbles.
They’re not going anywhere.
Lovely piece, warmed my heart.
A happy marriage is a gift that ripples outward into the world, I am sure of it. Congratulations on successfully nurturing and appreciating yours.