It really didn’t take a book entitled “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus” for me to realize that I am of a totally different species than my husband. And ladies, I am not sure about your husband but I really don’t think my hubby is from Mars, he has to be from someplace that worships boobs; like Boobenus or Tittopia.
And that is okay. I kind of like being different from my husband. I admit he seems to handle stress a lot better than me. He never comes home and complains about work, in fact, I feel sometimes like I am still living with my teenagers when I ask him how his day went. If I get an “okay” out of him I am winning! Never complains about co-workers, family members, even neighbors. Just comes in, checks the television guide for when the Cubs are going to be playing and inquires as to when dinner is going to be ready.
Me? I already have started chatting away about how long the grass is over across the street, what I saw in the paper that morning, what I am planning on packing for our upcoming vacation, a few silly things the dogs did throughout the day, and about ten additional things that seem to vary with the weather. Oh, and I talk about the weather too.
All the while, my betrothed continues to mess with the remote and raise his eyebrows every once in a while just to show me that he is paying attention; but I know better. He really doesn’t give a crap. I know that because I will strategically ask him a question about a topic I covered in my lecture, I mean conversation earlier, and when he stumbles, I just smile. You see, I am starting to realize that the planet I must be from is called Ura-martyr.
On my planet, we sit back and wait for all of the bad things that people do to us and live to point them out. We are a proud species, proud but pathetic. And I do recognize that I do this but I just can’t help it.
I can honestly recite back to him pretty much every conversation that the two of us have had with each other even weeks later, yet he can’t seem to remember that I told him we would be going out to eat with our sons on Sunday afternoon to celebrate the good grades they have gotten even though I have placed it on the calendar that flashes across our refrigerator screen daily and we have had several conversations about how we are wondering if our youngest is perhaps cheating since his grades are so good. How do these things slip his mind? Maybe on Tittopia, important messages flash across the woman’s chest. Hmm … maybe my nipples would help with the punctuation.
My message here is this, don’t follow my bad advice and get frustrated on a daily basis about how different your significant other’s communication skills differ from yours. Find out how they communicate and adapt a little.
And if you happen to be the only one that adapts, well, welcome to Ura-martyr.
The Bad Example 