Back in the infancy of television, boxing appeared almost every night, and the Friday Night Fights, sponsored by Gillette razors, were the high point of the week.
Perhaps not so for She and I---we never learned to argue, we never learned to settle differences, she always agreeing (like a good middle child), I always forcing my feelings and opinions (like a very older brother). And like many adults, we are too spent by the rigors and turmoil of the day to have meaningful discussions at the end of the day, content to somehow make it through dinner and then slowly and gently shut down with the boob tube. And so now we have arguments every single weekend, we have disagreements every Saturday or Sunday, we have hours of gut wrenching baring of the soul every weekend...you said this, I felt that, you never do this, why can't you just do that...and if goes on and on.
I found out, from the shrink, that I don't even have the requisite tools to have arguments, that I never watched my parents have arguments, and so for the last six months I've tried to learn to argue, to learn to listen rather than speak all the time, and to stop enabling the ever shrinking cirle that we're inhabiting. I've had to try to find a way to give her enough self to express some ideas without always agreeing and capitulating.
And so now I look forward to the weekdays, when I can be alone in the office, as much as I used to look forward to the weekends. The fights are bloody, knockdown and dragout, hurtful and hurting, and I'm eager to see Monday morning come and take them away.
Earworm-Travelling Wilburys, Handle Me With Care