The Marriage Files

When I was younger and travelled more, I often toured historic homes. One of the things that always struck me about the lifestyles of the very rich, especially a century ago, is how often husbands and wives had separate bedrooms. Single at the time, I thought to myself, "Wow, that’s tragic. I hope that if I ever get married, my husband and I never want to have separate bedrooms."

Older and wiser, I now have a different perspective on the situation. No, my husband K— and I don’t have separate bedrooms (not that we could in our house!), nor do we want them. I’ve just come to realize that the desire for some separation doesn’t mean a husband and wife don’t love one another. There’s some truth to that old saying that "familiarity breeds contempt." I can see how it would be easier to maintain a little mystery and romance in a relationship when two people aren’t forced to know every little detail of each other’s lives and bodies. You can hardly lie in bed imagining wistfully what your loved one is doing when s/he’s sprawled next to you, snoring. And wondering what your love is doing when s/he’s not with you is half the fun of dating.

At the same time that we like to wonder about other people, we know instinctively that it’s not good to know too much about them, even the ones we love. And we definitely know that it’s not good for them to know too much about us. That’s why we tell our spouses little white lies, don’t want the government to know which movies we rent, and don’t discuss hemorrhoids with our coworkers. And that’s why, when we hear something altogether too personal about someone else, we say, "I didn’t need to know that."

Unfortunately, most married couples don’t have the option of not knowing about each other’s less-than-endearing little attributes, if for no other reason than that some separate space costs too much. Making that adjustment to being in one another’s face all the time is a big part of the challenge of marriage. K— and I have done pretty well making that adjustment, but there is one glaring exception.

K— has a sensitive stomach in the morning. For many years, he didn’t even eat breakfast because he couldn’t stand the thought of food before noon. Now, he manages to force down a bowl of bland cereal that he eats half-heartedly because it’s supposed to be good for him.

I, on the other hand, am the sort of person who gets up in the morning, stretches heartily, breathes deeply and thinks to myself: wouldn’t it be wonderful to start the day with a great big helping of leftover sushi? Of course, I don’t dare say that out loud, because if I did, K— would turn green and run for the bathroom.

Yep, the sad truth is that sometimes my eating habits completely disgust the love of my life. Basically, I like to start my day with dinner, and K— finds this unbelievably stomach-turning. As a result, we are cursed, like the tragic couple Etienne and Isabeau in the movie Ladyhawke, to be forever together yet eternally apart. At breakfast time, anyway.

But wait! There’s more. The second food-related habit I have that I suspect K— could do without is cleaning my plate. In the household where I grew up, leaving food on your plate was a sin. I was lead to believe it would be the clincher on the list of transgressions the Devil read to me as he ushered me into Hell. "You’d have had a chance," he’d cackle in a booming voice as he tossed me into the fiery depths, "but for the liver and onions!" With visions of a charter membership in Club Hades dancing through my head, I absorbed this lesson like no other lesson my parents taught. I still think there’s something almost criminal about leaving food on your plate, but every now and then I wonder if K— looks at me toward the end of a meal and sees something akin to a dog lapping up the last morsel of kibble. I've never asked and I never will; I'm smarter than that.

The third and final (aren’t you glad?) of my offending food habits is sampling what’s on other people’s plates. Or I should say it used to be a habit. When K— and I began dating, I was the kind of person who enjoyed getting a taste of what other people were having when eating out in restaurants. I also freely shared what I had ordered. Boy, did he put a stop to that! All it took was one of those "That’s revolting" looks to freeze my fork in mid-air. Early in a relationship, that look is just beneath the phrase "Man, you’re ugly!" in its power to make one feel worthless. I keep my cutlery to myself these days.

What this all boils down to is that mealtimes in this marriage are hardly the sensual, erotic experiences portrayed in the movies. But as long as we adhere to a few ground rules (such as noshing on sushi in private in the AM), at least we can eat together. And thank heavens! Otherwise, it would be really embarrassing making arrangements for our anniversary dinner out. I’d call to make the reservation and I’d have to tell the hostess, "There are two of us, and it’s our anniversary, so can you give us your very best seats? Oh, and we’ll need separate tables."

The young hostess would take the reservation, hang up the phone, shake her head and say, "How sad. I sure hope that if I ever get married, it never gets to the point where my husband and I can’t even face one another at dinner." But I wouldn't bother to explain. I’d just console myself with the thought that she’d get older and wiser (and married!), and eventually, she’d understand.

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