B and I have high standards when it comes to sincerity. Specifically, I prefer her to be honest with me at all times, except when I prefer her to lie. The times when she should lie are (to me) self evident--such as, some weeks ago, when I was discussing what sheets I wanted to buy for Ari's bed. In this tricky situation, she was supposed to appear extremely interested, while simultaneously having no opinion whatsoever. If she'd had her own opinion, I would have feared she might actually want some say in the sheets, and that Ari would end up with either black or brown woolen, vintage sheets from a stoop sale in Brooklyn.
This particular instance of the sheets was one of our conflicts. I wanted to buy Ari sheets, and B said, "go ahead," and I felt she did not care about our love-child's decor. When I told her this, she said, "Well, I don't" and sighed exasperatedly.
At this point, my mood changed from hurt to hopeful that she might actually not care, and then I would get to decorate Ari's room however I wanted. This thought was wonderful, but I wanted more. I wanted to decorate and then have B proclaim me a genius for my taste and shopping skills. Here is where B hit her stride. She redeemed herself for her prior bored attitude by exclaiming convincingly about how great Ari's room looked and how lucky she was to have a wife who cared about interior design.
You see, decor sounds silly but actually is key. How can one be in a good mood, ever, if one's decor is shabby-non-chic or dark and dreary or uncomfortable? One cannot. That is how B was, when I found her. She lived in a basement apartment underneath an unrenovated house. The old lady who lived above her owned the house, had never dusted anything, and had rented the basement, furnished, to B. The location was wonderful, but the furnishings were hideous. First of all, every square centimeter of space had a fragile, filthy bauble on it, so you could not put anything down, except on the floor. This offended me especially, as I am a minimalist and shall be forever more, no matter what the fashion might be!
The floor of this wretched dungeon was covered in dark, disgusting rugs. It was the kind of place where a cloud of dirt billowed forth every time anything moved. This was mostly unnoticeable due to B's chain-smoking, which produced a dust-disguising cloud of smoke. B herself was such a slob that even the landlady (no slouch in terms of slobbishness) complained. I saw the diamond in the rough, though. I knew I could civilize this girl and take her excellent wit home with me and teach it to behave.
But this was about the sensitivity required of B and I in our marriage. Let us return to the question of honesty versus lies. Let us say there is something in my teeth. This, of course, has never been true, but just in case. Here is what I require. I require any person I am romantically involved with (in this case, B) to immediately and quietly tell me that there is something in my teeth. Then she shall offer a mirror or, if she does not have one, tell me where to find one. Then, after I have excused myself to correct the state of affairs and returned, she must pretend that it never happened. She must immediately change the subject to something fascinating enough to make us both forget the whole incident. Here is where I expect some high-quality lying. I do not care if the CIA sends agents, or if they water-board her. I do not care if she is hypnotized or drugged or drunk. She must never reveal that I have had something in my teeth in my lifetime. In fact, if either of us refers to my having left for the lady's room with a mirror, she must have another excuse ready, such as, ". . .when you left to go refill the parking meter." Never mind that there are no parking meters or that we walked.
There are other instances, such as stomach viruses and morning sickness and disgusting colds, that Never Occurred. All of this seems obvious to me, and to B too, which is why she does so well where others have fallen. She can fetch a glass of cold water after my morning sickness and then 2-3 seconds later straight-facedly insist it never happened. Prime marriage material, that.
Since she can handle it, I've upped the ante. She now would insist under duress that I have never had a blemish, blown my nose, had a grey hair, burped, peed, tripped and fallen down, gotten unbecomingly angry, perspired, drunk more than a person should, stepped in a pile of doo, or done anything else unattractive ever. If I ask her opinion of a shirt, say, or my hair, and it looks awful, she knows the proper response is, "that shirt does not do you justice" or "something is wrong with your shampoo." Something like that. I need information, or I wouldn't have asked, but there are ways to communicate without being rude. Basic stuff, this, but oh, so hard to find.
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