My Wife, the Insufferable Nag

Nothing I do pleases her, because everything I do is wrong.

Happy Places

Everyone wants to be in a Happy Place, our own zone of comfort, safety, and enjoyment. When Happy Places overlap, relationships form. When Happy Places get farther or split, so do people. Nobody likes an Unhappy Place.

My wife and I shared a Happy Place when we dated, a place with no kids and tons of sex. We either hit it in her apartment, or went out on the town and hit it later. We talked for hours on her couch, hitting it before, during, and after.

Then we got married and her Happy Place and my Happy Place gradually became different places. Moving in together and blending our divorced families changed our dynamics from carefree lovers to arguing stepparents.

We’ve since discovered parts of our Happy Places we never knew existed, where her Happy Place and my Happy Place don’t overlap at all. Each of us thinks the other has changed; we’re the same, but our circumstances aren’t.

Like most partners, we take for granted the many things we agree on, and frequently argue about the same few things that drive us both nuts. Things were much less complicated when all we did was make love and go out.

Each day we try to return to the Happy Place where we started. We’ve become nostalgic about it, almost maudlin. Every once in a while we catch a glimmer of it, a Happy Place teaser. We’re still tourists, hoping to find our way back.

Women are from Venus, Men are from Uranus

Heterosexual males are assholes. Let’s face it, straight guys just want to stick it in and fill ‘er up. On our way to tight, warm, and wet, we yell at people, scratch our nuts, and do nearly anything to get laid, like start World Wars.

I’m no exception. A typical guy, nothing ever really happens in my Happy Place, one of meaningless conversations, pointless activities, and shameless hedonism. My only goal is having no goal, a philosophy of Zen Machismo.

Dudes come in different flavors: Dorks, jocks, douchebags, etc. A geek, I love to bullshit for hours about obscure movie references, the multiverse, and my favorite Black Mirror episodes. Of course I play the electric guitar. Loudly.

My two adolescent boys are my pals. Their video game obsession isn’t a problem, it’s an inspiration; their junk food habit isn’t unhealthy, it’s haute cuisine; and their spoiled, obnoxious behavior is a flattering reflection of me.

The three of us live in our own world. We’ve spent days wearing the same clothes, never leaving the house. Our brain scans would be indistinguishable from caged experimental rats endlessly tapping the button for more cocaine.

Despite life’s ongoing challenges, I think we’re doing great! My eldest is introverted and has few friends; my youngest is extroverted and keeps breaking things. So what? I see my job as mostly staying out of their way.

Boxes and Beehives

My mind contains many boxes that are distinct and disconnected from each other, such as the parenting box. Other boxes include the sex box, food box, sleep box, play box, nothing box — and of course the wife box. (Hi there!)

That testosterone-addled architecture makes it natural and easy for me to separate thought from emotion, what I have to do from what I should. If a box is uncomfortable or problematic, I just close it and open another that’s better.

In stark contrast, my wife’s mind is an enormous buzzing beehive where powerful emotions constantly connect everything that she thinks, feels, and does. Making the honey is serious business, always plenty of work to do.

If the electrical activity in my mind looks like a satellite photo of North Korea, hers is Hong Kong on New Years Eve. I lurch through the day seeking paths of least resistance; she hurtles herself into the daily maelstrom, fixing things.

So my wife’s Happy Place is where everything happens, in real time, all the time. Every second is supercharged, infused with deep meaning and emotional purpose demanding immediate action and continuous repair.

From the moment she wakes up in the morning, To Do Lists spontaneously erupt in her mind and are announced like battle plans to conquer the yet-unseen but inevitable challenges of the uncertain and scary day ahead.

Momma Bear and her Chicago Cubs

At the risk of being sexist — that ship long ago having sailed, you’re no doubt thinking — our innate differences make evolutionary sense: For millennia my forebears went out and killed things, while hers kept the cave under control.

She also has a single egg a month to protect, while I carelessly release a hundred million of my best troops every time I get excited. Our minds and bodies wired differently for different reasons, it’s no wonder we fight.

While we dated we mated, our purpose singular and spectacular. The second we moved in together the goals changed, and so did the rules: From baby-making mode to child nurturing mode, before I knew it our shit got real.

Although my kids aren’t hers, my wife’s powerful maternal instincts have been activated, further stimulated by my ineptitude as a parent. She’s become obsessed with their well-being, focusing on their diet, exercise, and sleep.

An experienced and successful mom, all her advice is spot on. I know and openly acknowledge that if my kids and I did everything she recommends we’d be healthier and live better — and our married life would improve, too.

The only glitch is that I’ve been designed to hunt large land mammals into extinction, and lose interest whenever she talks about the dangers of video gaming and junk food, and the benefits of probiotics and a good night’s sleep.

Nagging the Stag

From her point of view we need help, and she’s the one who knows exactly the kind of help we need. If only we’d listen and do exactly what she says, our family territory would align with the maternal map inside her head.

From my point of view she’s absolutely right, no doubt about it, and sooner or later we’ll get around to it. For now, though, everything is just fine, and we’re having too much fun to change things that don’t seem particularly broken.

That careless and carefree attitude coming from our boyish brain boxes triggers her beehive into a buzzing frenzy. Otherwise bullshit table conversations get suddenly serious, and directionless days get a plan.

The result is conflict that sends us all to Unhappy Places: She’s bored by our shallowness and concerned by our recklessness; we’re annoyed by her incessant corrections and feel judged by her pointed criticisms.

On the defensive, we withdraw. That agitates her even more as she ratchets up non-stop maternal recommendations for improvement: Eat better! Sleep more! Game less! Read more! Work harder! Socialize! Get out of the house!

Sound suggestions. Who wouldn’t follow them? Us, because we feel nagged into oblivion. We resist the quality of content less than her style of delivery. No marketing campaign ever worked by yelling at your consumers.

Make Love Not War

Guys are high-fiving me from the sidelines by now, grunting and ordering beers; gals are likely cringing, making plans and sharpening things. What’s wrong with males? What’s so hard about doing the obvious and necessary?

Lust at first sight jump-started our romance, love kicking in soon after. But all this petty bickering over bullshit has squashed our libido, jeopardizing our relationship without which this whole show comes crashing down.

Airplane safety announcements advise that in the event of an emergency passengers should put their own oxygen masks on first, then the kids. The rationale is obvious: Unconscious parents don’t do their kids much good.

The irony is that my kids are the source of our friction, since prior to all living together we were fine. The lesson to learn is figuring out how to shift the emphasis back to our core relationship, so we all return to our Happy Places.

I’ve noticed that my wife gets turned on whenever I discipline my kids or do chores around the house — the same way eating burritos and watching a science fiction movie with her makes me hard. Doesn’t take much, does it?

Meeting in the middle is another way of saying we need to learn from each other. If I can dial-up the Give A Shit, and if my wife can tone down the Super Mom, we can hopefully recapture what’s been lost, and find each other again.

Relationships are challenging. We didn’t quite work out. How’re YOU doing?