After 40 years of marriage, I’ve finally figured out what’s going on.
Every conversation with my wife is a highly sophisticated loyalty test disguised as a disagreement about something that absolutely does not matter.
For example:
I might casually say, “I think the movie starts at 7.”
She will say, “Interesting, because in 1998 you said something very similar about a hardware store in Tucson, and we both know how that turned out.”
At this point, an untrained husband might panic.
He might attempt to defend himself with “facts.”
This is incorrect.
This is not about the movie.
This is not about Tucson.
This is about whether I will stand firm in the face of adversity…
Or collapse like a poorly constructed IKEA shelf.
Early in the marriage, I chose the IKEA shelf.
But I’ve evolved.
Slightly.
Now I understand my role.
It is not to be right.
It is to demonstrate emotional stamina under historical cross-examination.
My wife does not forget anything.
She has a memory like a museum archive.
Except every exhibit is something I said slightly wrong in 2003.
Meanwhile, I can’t remember where I put my glasses.
They are on my face.
Over time, I’ve noticed something else.
Every conversation begins calmly.
Then it quietly becomes a multi-phase negotiation.
It starts innocently.
“What do you want for dinner, Jaron?”
“We’re on a diet and doing well,” I say.
“How about a small steak and some healthy carrots and cabbage?”
“When do you want to eat?” she asks.
“Five PM,” I say.
“Fine,” she says.
A reasonable person would assume we have reached an agreement.
This is adorable.
Because what we have actually entered is Stage One.
A long-form negotiation process.
Governed by rules known only to her.
And possibly an international tribunal.
At 5 PM, I am presented with spaghetti.
It appears to have served in a previous administration.
“The pasta is a bit off,” I say.
Gently.
Like a man who values his continued existence.
“There’s a reason for it,” she says.
“What reason?” I ask.
“The last time I made spaghetti for you, you threw it away.”
“That was 28 years ago,” I say.
“You can’t forget the past, can you?” she says.
At this point, I understand something important.
This is no longer a conversation.
This is a hearing.
There are records.
There are exhibits.
There may be transcripts.
“Fine,” I say.
And just like that, the negotiation concludes.
I accept the terms.
Which involve eating historical spaghetti.
As part of a long-term character development plan.
Naturally, I developed a theory.
Given her past experiences with men who failed the course and withdrew mid-semester…
She has designed a system.
A rigorous, ongoing evaluation process.
She starts a small “discussion”…
Just to see:
Will he stay?
Will he fold?
Will he attempt logic?
(Adorable.)
Will he survive Phase Three: Archival Evidence?
So, to reassure her, I took decisive action.
I gifted her both of our houses.
I also transferred my entire private collection of gold.
Not a metaphor.
Actual gold.
I don’t remember when I started collecting it.
But apparently I did.
And now it’s hers.
This, I assumed, would finally put her at ease.
Instead, she has hidden the gold.
In a location known only to her.
A small woodland animal.
And possibly a retired Swiss banker.
She has also suggested we acquire a third house.
“For security,” she says.
In her name.
At this point, I no longer ask questions.
I simply nod.
And assume I am part of a long-term strategic operation.
One that will be revealed to me after my passing.
Anyway, after 40 years, I’ve learned the secret.
You don’t win the argument.
You don’t understand the argument.
You remain present.
While the argument evolves.
Across decades.
Locations.
Dietary plans.
And real estate transactions.
And if you’re lucky…
You get to spend your life with someone who remembers everything.
Negotiates everything.
And is still, somehow, keeping you around.
Which, given my track record, feels like a win.
I have just read my husband Jaron’s latest “hilarious” account of our marriage.
I would like to correct the record before this becomes accepted history.
First of all, nothing in our home “morphs into a negotiation.”
That would imply two rational parties.
What actually happens is this:
Jaron says something with enormous confidence.
Then reality enters the room.
Usually carrying a folder.
For example:
“What do you want for dinner, Jaron?”
“We’re on a diet,” he says.
As if he has just discovered science.
“How about a small steak and some healthy carrots and cabbage?”
This is the same man who had “a little snack” at 2 PM.
The snack involved a plate.
A fork.
And lying down afterward.
Then I ask, “When do you want to eat?”
“Five PM,” he says.
Five PM.
Like we are trying to beat the crowd at the cafeteria.
So I say, “Fine.”
Because after 40 years, I know when to conserve energy.
At 5 PM, I serve spaghetti.
He looks at it like I have handed him evidence from a crime scene.
“The pasta is a bit off,” he says.
Gently.
Because he is foolish, but not suicidal.
I say, “There’s a reason for it.”
He says, “What reason?”
I say, “The last time I made spaghetti, you threw it away.”
He says, “That was 28 years ago.”
Exactly.
So he remembers.
Interesting.
Jaron says I “can’t forget the past.”
That is not true.
I forget plenty of things.
I forget where I put my keys.
I forget why I walked into a room.
I forget why I married him.
Briefly.
Then he smiles at me.
And I remember.
But I do not forget useful information.
If a man throws away spaghetti in 1996, that is not a grudge.
That is data.
I collect data.
I organize data.
I weaponize data only when necessary.
Which, with Jaron, is often.
Now let’s discuss his theory.
Apparently, I start little arguments to see if he will stay.
This is adorable.
I have stayed with this man for 40 years.
If this is a test, I am clearly the one taking it.
And I deserve extra credit.
He also claims he has given me both houses and all his gold.
This sounds dramatic.
It is less dramatic when you understand the facts.
The houses are in my name because someone has to know where the paperwork is.
And his “private gold collection” consists of three coins, a broken watch, and something he bought online during a documentary phase.
He called it an investment.
I called it Tuesday.
He says I have hidden the gold.
I did not hide it.
I put it somewhere safe.
In a labeled drawer.
Which means he will never find it.
And yes, I suggested we buy a third house.
In my name.
Not because I am plotting.
Because if Jaron is going to keep being wrong with this much confidence, I may occasionally need another building to stand in.
Still, I will say this.
He is my favorite problem.
He is loyal.
He is funny.
He is kind.
He is also a bit of a dolt.
But he is my dolt.
And after 40 years, I know the truth.
He does not always understand the argument.
He does not always understand dinner.
He does not always understand paperwork, gold, time, pasta, or basic cause and effect.
But he stays.
And so do I.
Which is why, despite everything, I have decided to keep him.
For now.
Unless the third house closes escrow.
