In the beginning, we not only shave, we exfoliate. We apply lotion and fall asleep naked or in silk. Oral pleasure isn’t just witty banter, and most of all, we’re willing to dance, to try foods we know we don’t like, we’ll go camping ’cause we said we loved the outdoors—only we’d meant sitting on a lounge chair, maybe an iPod trot into town. Light and breezy, ready and willing for whatever. And, yes, we even consult close friends on lube strategy and discuss the possibility of back door situations. We listen to music, or watch movies they like. We give.

We leave the courting stage, and go back to our ways, with sweet gestures, creative moments and memories made. We pick up his favorite foods. He’ll DVR a show he thinks she’ll like. Small sweet tokens, some good hair pulling sex, and you remind yourself to sit on his lap and treat him like your boyfriend.

But.

You knew that was coming. But what do you do when the one you love asks you to attend a heavy metal concert, and just the thought of it makes your life hurt? Not just your ears or feet, your entire being. The idea of standing in general seating—where there are no seats, where you’re basically in a garage, where you wait 35 minutes for a piss poor imitation of a cocktail, all to hear someone you never ever want to hear, now or ever again—it’s exhausting even to think about how much you don’t want to be there. What if you know the entire time you will be miserable and will have to suck it up and fake how totally okay you are with it all because “Honey, I want so much to share in what makes you happy.” And you know 100% that he’d go for you! No, one better: Phil is the type of man who would order tickets for the two of us to attend something he knows he’ll absolutely loathe, just because he knows how much I like it. That’s who he is…

I say this next bit while cringing.
But it ain’t who I am.

He wants to please me, to surprise me. To have me share in what he loves. And I’m a terrible person. Because I’m not that person. Yes, really. It really is that hard for me to just suck it up for a night and make him happy. There are many things I do to show love, only this is the way he wants to be loved, for me to share and enjoy with him what he enjoys. I get it. I really do. And I love this man, really love this man. But I’m a selfish shit because I want absolutely zero part of this nightmare torture shit-chamber hell-storm stand-and-sway, then jump, and act like you like you like the music. I need to discuss this with my therapist.

Textbook advice from people who’ve been married forever might say: If you put the other person’s happiness before your own, and always try to make them happy, you’ll have a long and happy marriage. Other lifelongers would argue: it’s important for each person to have his/her own interests, to do things on your own.

I’m guessing my therapist will tell me that it is perfectly acceptable for either person to opt-out of an event, a television show, a movie, a concert, whatever. That I should say, you know, I know this concert will make you happy, and I don’t want to get in the way of that, because I know myself, and it’s just not for me. Why don’t we plan another night to do something we’ll both enjoy? And this response of mine, she’ll say, is perfectly reasonable, that it shouldn’t disrupt things. That in a healthy marriage, our spouse should understand; it’s not the end of the world. Or maybe she won’t say that. I’ll let you know.

But when I turn things around and think, if Ray Lamontagne came to town, and I asked Phil to go, and he said, “You know I love you, but it’s really not my thing. Why don’t you go, enjoy it, and we’ll plan something else to do together that we both enjoy” I would be absolutely, positively, unmistakably fine with it. There would be no “selfish,” no pouting, no “Why do I even bother asking?” I simply wouldn’t take it personally. At all. Isn’t that the way it should be?

By the way, it’s not actually a heavy metal concert. But that’s really beside the point. In response to his email titled, “Can I Convince You To Go To This?” Here’s how I handled it:

“I love you honey. I really do. I think I’d prefer to sit this one out, and I hope that’s okay, and that you don’t take it personally. Because it’s not. I just don’t enjoy loud music and standing unless it’s an acoustic guitar with a loud soulful singer who’s all about lyrics. I hope you understand and that we can do something else fun together that we’ll both enjoy. Would that be okay?”

And when I arrived home and restated it in person, he said, “Okay,” and left it at that. We are making some serious progress. Love the man for not making a sweeping generalization about my love for him, from an isolated behavior. Go us.

Off to wax the ‘gina.

My hands were full with a sleeve of diapers and two books. You were sitting on the bed with our little man. I heard you say, "They laughed at you? Well, that’s their problem, not yours, buddy." You and I had talked about it earlier in the day–that Lucas said he didn’t tell the kids at school about his first baseball game, or the special ball he got, because he said, "they laugh at me."

I heard you speaking to him before I walked in. But once I did, you said, "Mama, come here now." Said isn’t really the right word, but barked is overused—demanded works. "Mama, come here now," you commanded.

"No," I said from the bathroom, "I have to put these down first." I didn’t put things where they belonged, didn’t straighten up, didn’t even flip on the light. I was standing beside the two of you in only a matter of seconds. Not minutes, seconds. It wasn’t good enough.

"Stephanie, when I tell you to do something, you do it!"

I stood there with that line, staring at you. I still can’t believe, not only that you would say that to me, your wife, but that when we spoke of it later and I repeated it back for you to hear, you agreed that you’d said it, and saw nothing wrong with it. It gets worse.

"You are not the boss of me," I responded. I wasn’t shouting. Still, I shouldn’t have said anything. I sat on the bed.

"This is important; you come here now. You don’t drop things off in the bathroom first."

"They were heavy, and I’m here now."

"This isn’t about you, Stephanie, Jesus!" With this, I recognize how explosive the situation is. "I’ll be right back," I tell Lucas. Abigail is racing, bottomless. Waiting for me to take her to the potty. I leave the room. You follow me.

"Don’t" I say. But you do. You follow me. You are enraged. You’re not backing down. If I had looked for it, I could have seen a pulse throbbing in your neck. I can’t remember what you screamed next, with Abigail racing around us. I just wanted you to stop, but you wouldn’t. I tried whispering, telling you to please "shhhh." I tried to put my hand over your mouth, which was a mistake.

You grabbed me by the wrists, pushing them away. "Get your hands off me," you raged, as if I were the abusive one. I didn’t know what to do, how to end it as fast as possible.

I turned in the other direction. "I need to walk away from you now," I said, attending to Abigail, trying to get her on the potty. You followed me. I turned away again, back to the kids’ room.  "Just go away," I said. "I’ll put them to bed. You’re out of control."

"No! I’m not going anywhere." Then to Lucas you said, "I’m here for you, buddy. But your mother, she doesn’t care about you."

I don’t care how enraged you are. There is no excuse for this, ever. It’s not just that you’ve said something so damaging to him, so insulting to me, but you still have yet to apologize. You have yet to say, "I hate myself for getting that out of control. It’s unacceptable, ever. I need to never, ever do that again. Not only because it’s hurtful to you, but it’s hurtful to this family, to who I want to be." You’ve said none of it. In fact, you want an apology from me, for not following your orders fast enough. For how I "made another excuse, complaining that things were heavy, instead of immediately attending to the situation." Or in your words, "Putting yourself, Stephanie, over anyone else. It was all about what you perceived of the situation, and it didn’t matter how strongly I felt about having you sit down that second."

I didn’t say another word to you. I took Abigail to the bathroom, helped her with her pull-up, told her to climb into her bed. You said again to Lucas, "Your mother only cares about herself." I ignored you. I sat with Lucas, as you tucked Abigail into her bed.

"The kids at school laughed at you?" I asked, repeating the part of the story I knew.

You continued, "Don’t tell him what happened! Why wouldn’t you ASK him? Jesus!" With all I had I resisted telling you to back the fuck off and let me be his mother the way I am, stop telling me what to say and how to say it. Stop giving orders. I didn’t say anything. I listened to Lucas, who, when I asked him if he’d tell the kids at school about his baseball, he said, "They’ll laugh at me, and throw my baseball out into the street, where a car will run it over." I wondered if this was something he’d seen on television. At school, the playground is in a courtyard, nowhere near cars.

"If they laugh, say ‘Hey, thanks, it’s a fun story,’ because you know what honeylamb? You’re a funny guy. And you’re smart. And generous, which means you’re really good at sharing. You’re an excellent singer. And what else are you?"

"I am…"

"Go on."

"I am important."

"That’s right. You are very important, and you matter. You can do anything you want to do." And we continue with our bedtime ritual. And I’m thankful for starting this ritual, ending our day with all that was right in it. Speaking of our favorite parts, and reminding them how special they are to us. But I’m acutely aware that all the positive talk in the world can do nothing to combat dysfunctional parents. I sing them to sleep, you hug them, get them water, we leave the room together, and walk off separately.

This He Said, She Said was filmed prior to Tiger Woods’ Ambien sex "transgressions" and the subsequent release of his alleged voicemail message:

"Hey it’s Tiger, I need you to do me a huge favor. Can you please take your name off your phone? My wife went through my phone and may be calling you. So if you can, please take your name off that. Just have it as a number on the voicemail. You got to do this for me. Huge. Quickly. Bye."

Should you trust blindly in your significant other, living in a "love is blind" world of "ignorance is bliss," or is it sometimes okay to say, "What’s mine is yours, so, um, show me yours… now!"