Stephen Fried - Husbandry: Love and Dirty Laundry--Inside the Minds of Married Men

Contents

To Diane

husbandry (hzbn-dr) n.

1. The application of scientific principles to agriculture, especially to animal breeding.

2. The application of somewhat less scientific principles (like asking friends really personal questions, quizzing the wife, revealing stuff that could embarrass yourself and others, and yes, okay, maybe reading a few studies) to musings on being a husband.

Every Journey Begins with a Pair of Socks

Lets start with my socks. Not the ones Im wearing, but the ones I wore yesterday. The ones I took off last night and plopped on the floor in the general vicinity of the laundry basket. Yes, those socks. Those size-thirteen socks that are the biggest source of discord in my twenty-year marriage.

When my wife, Diane, comes across my socksso close to the basket, yet so far from actually being in itthe incredulity begins to bubble up inside her. And then we have the discussion, which starts out about socks and ends up being about the evolution of the species. Its the same place the discussion about the dirty dishes in the sink ends up.

Now, this discussion about the evolution of the species is actually quite fascinatingas long as youre not in the middle of it. As it begins, Diane, who has a high-school trophy on her shelf for Best Negative Debater, poses this query: Are these socks (or dishes) left where they are because I dont remember shes asked me a million times not to leave them there, or because I remember being asked, but I just dont care that it matters to her?

While Im trying to figure out which response would be better for the future of my marriage (or, as the guys in my regular half-court basketball game put it, Which answer gets me laid?), my wife, a novelist who also reads a lot of science books for fun, asks a second question. If I dont remember (which is sounding more and more like the right answer here), is it because I wasnt listening to her all the times she asked, or is there something wrong with me physiologicallyan actual problem with the workings of my brain, some bad sectors on my mental hard drive? Then she notes that studies have shown that mens brains deteriorate faster than womens, and at forty-nine, my robust lobes have probably started shrinking to the size of raisins.

By this point in the increasingly one-sided discussion, the correct response is clear.

Okay, put me down for the brain damage.

If only it were that easy to escape the discussion. Usually, I am able to wriggle out of this inquisition because my wife knows that I wouldnt purposely do anything to make her upset. But I suspect she also privately takes comfort in the smaller brain theory, which is another example of the big lies women tell men about size not mattering.

What I would never tell her, of course, is that while I really dont remember that I shouldnt let my socks decorate the floor, I also dont really care. Sure, I care that it matters to her. But to be perfectly frank, I doubt Im ever going to really care myself or even understand why it matters to her. When it comes to socks or dishes, Diane knows I prefer a good, messy pileup and, after a week (or a month) or so, a really good cleaning. For situations where bacteria and decay arent involved, well, whats wrong with tidying up once a year?

After all, isnt that where the term spring cleaning came from?

I know there are some men who undoubtedly remember to put their socks in the laundry and believe in that same-day dish-doing thing. One of my two brothers is actually quite neat (we refer to him as the mailmans child), so it is possible for a man to actually care about such things. But most men I know dont. And wont.

One friend of mine believes that the real issue isnt remembering or caring, but rather the sheer volume of wifely requests. Well, they go on and on about so many thingsI mean, how can you tell which ones really matter anyway? he asks, exasperated. I think women need to stop every now and again and say, This bit is really important, so you can forget the last four hours of stuff Ive been going on about.

While I have some experience with what hes describing, I still think the reason I cant just throw away a cereal box with five Cheerios left in it lies in the fuzzy area between remembering and caring. So I decided to dig up some of those studies Diane always throws in my face about mens and womens memories and brains. It turns out that the most current work focuses less on brain capacity and more on the gender differences in wiring, especially for cognition and memory. The research shows that women have better emotional memories and better autobiographical memories than men.

This would support a theory I like: Men are physiologically programmed not to remember that they are supposed to care about stuff like the final resting place of their socks. (On a more serious note, the researchers speculate that having a better emotional memory is one reason women suffer from depression more than men.)

I found another aspect of this study especially revealing. This particular research was done by showing groups of men and women the same series of images and then asking three weeks later what they remembered about them. Apparently, the women found four specific pictures the most emotionally intense. Dead bodies. Gravestones. Crying people. And a dirty toilet.

The women found a dirty toilet as emotionally intense as a dead body.

So heres my query to Diane: Its bad enough that youre burdened with this horrific association; is it something you really wish on me?

Her answer, of course, is yes.

Hoop Dreams for Husbands: Half-Court at Midlife

Every Sunday morning at 7:30, I bring my wife a cup of coffee in bed. And every time, I get the same yawning response.

Play nice with the other boys, Diane says before rolling back over to sleep. And dont get hurt.

Its not exactly an inspiring pep talk as I depart for the gym. But, in many ways, I share her concern about the half-court basketball game Ive been playing in, with the same group of guys, since 1991. In our game, where the average player age is now fifty, winning isnt everything. Being able to walk to the whirlpool unassisted afterward is everything. Being able to play the next game is everything.

Im at the age when most men experience basketball only in memory and on televisionwhich they watch until its warm enough outside to play golf. So Im pleased to be part of a group that plays and sweats together, year-round, supported by ankle and knee braces, prescription goggles, taped fingers, and the power of competitive camaraderie.

I must admit that Im awed by the amount of intense time this group of guys spends in the alternative universe of our half-court-at-midlife game. Not only do we play three times a week, but we also e-mail promiscuouslymaking sure we have enough players and cyber-trash-talking about previous contests. But only one player has ever said his wife was bothered by the amount of time his family was losing to the game. And that could be because they have four kids whom she left her law career to raise, and because he also has a lot of travel and dinner commitments for work. (He also has the worst injury record in the game: two torn knee ligaments, both of which required surgery and extensive rehab.)