Couplehood (8 page)

Ever been out with four or five couples? It’s like the Conversation Olympics. Whatever subjects come up, every couple has to compete.

“We had an experience like that, too.” Then you step forward and tell
your
piteous little tale, and the conversation moves clockwise around the table, everybody telling
their
version of essentially the same story.

By the time it gets to the semifinals, it gets very tough.
Your
story has to be more interesting than the last couple. If Couple Number One lost their luggage in Mexico, Couple Two lost their luggage
and their passports.

Couple Three has to beat that. “We lost our luggage, our passports, and our … 
house
was stolen, too. And
our children! The whole family, everything. We called American Express and we got new kids the next day … two girls and a boy, so it worked out well—but for a while there, we were
quite
alarmed.”

S
ometimes your team
has
no story. You have to huddle frantically with your partner: “Honey, Honey, quick—do we have anything like that? Airport, luggage—anything? Remember you lost that comb that time? Is there anything in that? … Come on, hurry up, we’re next. THINK, man, THINK. Okay, we’re up.” Big smile. “Yes, we had the same thing happen to us … this was three years ago.…” And you’re off and running.

Sometimes you’re in the middle of your story, you look around the table, and you realize—nobody’s listening. They’re talking amongst themselves, paying the check … And you’re thinking, “Am I the dullest person in the world? What happened here?”

And then, the saddest moment in the world: You look at your wife and discover
she’s
listening. She, who’s heard the story a thousand times. But, God bless her, she doesn’t have the heart to let your story plummet like a boulder. So she sits there pretending she’s interested. And what’s even more pathetic is
you continue to tell her.
You don’t want to stop.

“You know,
we
once … anyone listening? You
know,
we
once had a thing … in Florida, actually … We were in Florida”—and you turn right to your wife—“Honey, remember in Florida, that time? The cabdriver at the airport …”

And finally she leans in discreetly and says, “You can stop now, nobody’s listening. You don’t have to amuse me.”

“But I was trying to amuse
them
”

“But they’re not listening.”

“I listened to
their
stories.”

“I know, honey, I know …”

W
hen you’ve been together long enough, you know each other’s stories. That’s why a lot of times you see couples in their eighties sitting and not talking: They’ve heard everything. They know. “When we got married, I told you everything I had done up to that point. And since then,
you were there.
What could I possibly tell you? … What happens if we
don’t
talk? Can we try that? Could we just
read?
And if we read something interesting, we’ll talk about that. Whaddya say?”

People who get married later in life have that great advantage. “Hey, baby, I’ve got stories till we die. Things I haven’t even
hinted
to you about. Did you know I went to junior high school with FDR? That’s right. Sweet fella. I was going to tell you later.”

I
t just so happens that in life there are the exact same number of people who like olives as people who don’t. And they usually end up together.

No one knows how this works.

But next time you’re in a restaurant, look around. Someone who can’t stand olives will accidentally
get
some, and the person they’re with will say, “I can’t believe you don’t like olives,” and happily eat their olives.

See, a lot of things are that much simpler when you’re a couple. Like ordering food. Couples develop their own strategies.

“Here’s what we do. I got it, I got it—I
got
it.…
Here’s the plan.
I’ll
get the chicken, and
you
get the salmon, and that way we’re covered.”

That’s another big plus about being Two instead of One. There are
two
dishes, so if one of you makes a mistake, there’s always Backup Fish.

“I’ll get the chicken, and then, if it stinks, I’ll eat your salmon.… What? If
yours
stinks? Well, then you got a problem, ’cause mine turned out pretty good. Hey, nobody told you to order bad. Live and learn.”

G
oing to a movie is easier, too. Couples are good at this because you can split up the responsibilities.

“Honey, I’m gonna park the car, you get out and buy the tickets—I’ll meet you on line.” Everybody has a job.

It’s a military operation, and the two of you are a precision drill team.

“Okay. You get on the ticket
buyers’
line. I will park the car, come around the northwest corner, and get on the ticket
holders’
line. I’m at the ticket holders’, you’re at the ticket buyers’. Now, at nineteen hundred hours, the doors will open, and I’ll have to move out. My regiment’s leaving. If I don’t have tickets in hand, we’re dead. Get me those tickets. Now cover me—I’m going in!”

Of course, this type of expertise doesn’t happen overnight; it takes months and months of Saturday nights to practice. You must each accept that there is a job to be
done and sacrifices to be made. There’s no romance involved; it’s all business. “Tonight we’ll see a movie, tomorrow we’ll kiss. Now get out of the car and go go go go
GO!
”

Couples just starting out don’t know this. Ever see first-date couples at a weekend movie? No. Because they never get in.

They haven’t developed this taste for blood. They’re too busy holding hands, being polite. “Which movie would you rather see? Because if you’d rather see something else … Oh, look—everything seems to be sold out.”

Of course it’s sold out! It’s Saturday, eight o’clock. Separate! Split up! Do your jobs, be nice to each other afterward.

E
ven when you get
into
the theater, it’s not over. You have to get seats. Now, again, there’s a science to this.

You walk into the theater, grab the first two seats you see. Doesn’t matter where they are, and you may very well not sit there. But grab them. That’s your fallback position.

Now one of you guards the fallback position, while the other one goes to look for
better
seats. You set out in the jungle with a machete and a map, and periodically throw your gaze back to the fallback position, secure in the
knowledge that, at worst, you’ve got two sucky seats in the back waiting for you.

To find better seats, you have to bother other people. You see a guy next to a jacket. “Excuse me, is that seat taken?” You have to ask. Because you don’t know—Is he saving it? Is he dating his clothing? It’s not always clear.

Sometimes you see a jacket
and
a hat—he’s waiting for
two
friends. Once in a while you see a trail of clothing: jacket, hat, shoes, pants, socks, underwear, tie clip, belt—and way down at the end there’s one guy sitting there naked and embarrassed. “Yes, they’re
all
coming back. We’re a group of twelve—I underdressed. I didn’t think this through. Do you mind moving on? Please!”

A
nd when you find your seats, it’s
still
not over. One of you has to go back out to get the popcorn. That’s usually my job. I’m happy to do it, but there’s no moment more embarrassing than when you come back into that dark theater and realize you don’t know where you’re sitting. Suddenly, you’re 4 years old and lost at the circus. You’re near tears: “Honey? Honey—” You’re sitting in people’s laps: “Sorry, wrong row.… Honey, where are you? … I got the Gummi Bears you wanted.…”

If you can’t find the seats, you’ve got to go to the front row and walk up the entire aisle, in plain view of everyone, hoping your partner will see you and come to your rescue. Of course, they’re watching the movie at this
point, and the last thing they’re thinking about is
you.

So you’re wandering up and down the aisle like an idiot. “Help me … somebody … don’t you see I’m dying here?” You’re standing in front of a crowd with your arms full of crap
you
didn’t even want. “Someone pull me out of this hell!”

You bump into other guys who are just as lost.

“Honey?!”

“Babe?!”

“Sweetheart?!”

“Hey,
my
wife is ‘sweetheart.’ ”

“Sorry … HONEY?”

That’s all you hear: men whining, and women whispering men’s names loudly.

“Steve! Steve!
”

“
Leonard!
”

“Mitchell! I’m over here!”

It’s pathetic. In this situation, my advice is—sit next to
any
woman, it doesn’t matter who. And just level with her. “Look, Mitchell is not coming back. I just saw him go into the wrong theater, so he won’t be back for some time. My wife is sitting with a guy named Steve, Steve is with Leonard’s wife—it’s all screwed up. But I’m a guy, I got popcorn, it’s the same exact thing. So just tell me what I missed. What happened so far?”

You watch the movie, and you settle up afterward.

T
here are other benefits to having a Permanent Partner.

Ever been invited somewhere you really don’t want to go? If you’re married, you always have someone else to
blame.

“Next Saturday? You know, I’d love to, but I’m pretty sure my wife made plans.… Yeah, let me check with her and get back to you.”

Of course, I try to weasel out of getting back to them, too.

“You know, honey, I really think
you
should call them. After all, they’re
your
friends.… Alright, they’re
my
friends, but you met them, didn’t you? Well, there you go. Besides, they like you better. I’ll tell you what.
I’ll
dial and
you
talk to them. Is that fair? We’ll split it 50–50.”

T
hree weeks ago, my wife tells me we’re going to a party for a woman she works with who is going to have a baby. I’m uneasy.

“What is this—like a
shower?
”

She says, “No, it’s not a shower. It’s a party.”

“There going to be guys there?” I ask.

She says, “Yes, there’ll be guys there.”

Then it hit me: when did
this
happen? I spent the first big chunk of my life wondering if there were going to be
girls
there; now I’m checking to make sure there are
guys
there. Something has changed.

You see, single men judge social events solely by How Many Women Are Going to Be There. It’s what they ask before they go, and what they talk about when they get back. No matter what the event. It could be a funeral. “Man, you should have seen this woman sitting behind the widow. Was she
gorgeous.
”

It could be anything. A soccer riot. “I was pressed against this girl from Santiago you would not believe.”

But now that I’m married and no longer looking to meet women, I want to make sure there are other married guys there, so I’m not the only one not meeting women.

In fact, it’s not about
meeting
women. It’s a matter of Balance. There’s a Guy-to-Girl Ratio that makes us comfortable, and we’re always checking that ratio.

That’s why the minute somebody has a baby, that’s the first question: “Boy or girl?” You need to know. We’re keeping track. A perpetual, universal head count: how many boys, how many girls. “So, what’d they have—boy or a girl? Which is it? The Penis Model, or the Not-So-Much-A-Penis Model? Either one is great, I just need to know.”

No wonder we’re all so consumed with sex: from the second we’re born, that’s the first place everybody’s looking. They pull you out: “Let’s see what you got—specifically
there.
”

They don’t care if you have a head or a back, but
whatever is going on between your legs—they need to know
now.

A
nyway, we go to this friend’s baby’s party, and somehow
I
was responsible for getting the
card.

How do you find the right card for someone you’ve never heard of?

What is the exact sentiment you’re trying to express?

“I know nothing about you, but I’m sure you’re a nice enough person.”

“We hardly know you, what did you expect—cash?” You never see those kind of cards.

I love when they take a card and concoct every family/relationship combination imaginable: “From the Two of Us to the Two of You,” “From the Three of Us to the Three of You,” “From Some of Us to All of You,” “From Both of Us to Nobody in Your Area …”

Then they break it up by occupations: “To a Wonderful Boss from a Terrific Secretary,” “From a Belligerent Osteopath to a Nifty Teamster.” Every job, every adjective.

I once went up to the guy at the register and said, “You know, a friend of mine just got a job on the same day as his anniversary, and his dog just had puppies, but sadly his grandfather passed away that afternoon. Is there a card that might cover the whole thing?”