Tag: marriage pain

Masculinity that’s NOT Toxic

Masculinity that's NOT Toxic

Audio version now available.

 

At the opening of the holiday classic, A Christmas Carol, the narrator insists that we accept the fact that Marley is dead. “This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.” As a kindred spirit to Ebenezer Scrooge, I have always wanted to use that quote. In the spirit of the season, and because it fits the point I shall attempt to make, now is my chance.

 

When I talk of the critical necessity that men adapt and evolve into Emotional Masculinity, I am not misogynistically suggesting that women embrace femininity as some sort of retro, throwback, stone-age counterbalance. And yet, when women I know well–women who have weighed my pros and cons and decided to trust me–when my closest female discovery warriors hear me talk of Emotional Masculinity, they instinctively bristle.

A.B.D.

A.B.D.

Audio version now available.

 

I subscribed my wife, Sheri, to a paid Spotify account for her birthday several years ago. To help you gauge how incredibly cheap I really am, I think a Spotify account is like $10 a month. Or maybe $15. Or maybe it was $10 back then, and now it’s $15. Anyway, the point is, $10 a month took thoughtful consideration for me. “That’s $120 a year, don’t you know. Why can’t you use the free version? Do you really need to be able to create playlists? Can’t you just sit by your boombox and press the cassette record button when the radio plays your favorite songs like the seasoned Gen-Xer you are?” Generosity just oozes from my thoughtful consideration.

 

This gift for Sheri allows for three logins using the same username and password. I immediately signed my phone into her account, and within a week, I found another of my devices I could use to occupy the third loggin. Happy birthday, Sheri. I’ll be commandeering 2/3rds of your cheap-ass gift.

 

Believe it or not, that’s not the end of the Spotify story.

Dudes on the Struggle Bus

Dudes on the Struggle Bus

Audio version now available.

 

Nothing frustrates me more than hearing a man complain that his wife doesn’t love him unconditionally.

 

He’s right. She doesn’t love him unconditionally. And she’s not supposed to. It’s a stupid thing to complain about. It would make more sense to complain that his lawn mower does a shitty job shoveling snow.

 

How can a relationship that starts with a long list of conditions be expected to magically morph into unconditional love? People partner up for a variety of reasons–popular among the categories are aesthetics, intellect, wit, and charm. If he is looking for unconditional love, maybe he should look to a relationship that’s not completely dependent on so many conditions. His anger is misdirected. But honestly, it’s not his fault.

 

He’s likely never been loved unconditionally.

Do You See What I See?

Do You See What I See?

Audio version now available.

 

Three drinks for two people. That sure looked familiar. He carried them triangle style – two beers in plastic cups secured in the semicircles of both of his thumbs and index fingers, with her plastic wine cup precariously squeezed between his two middle fingers. His priorities were made clear by which drink was least secure in the very likely event that he stumbled. But he didn’t stumble. At least not yet.

 

They heard the upbeat music from the beverage tent, and drifted over looking for the party and his people. But this was a brass band playing at a summer outdoor festival for a food-truck lunch crowd, and so early in the day, he was one-of-a-kind. A kind I recognize. He was me from a decade ago.

Who the f&@% is this guy?

Who the f&@% is this guy?

Audio version now available.

 

Most of the active or sober alcoholics who listen to our Untoxicated Podcast or read our Sober and Unashamed blog are referred to our stuff by their partners. In most cases, the partner has tried to implement some of what she has learned from our experiences into her own growth and recovery. This means that the majority of the alcoholics who are introduced to our stories are already feeling the pain of emotional detachment and a lack of compassion from their partners when they first find us.

 

Most of the referred alcoholics greet our words with the same question: “Who the fuck is this guy?” Sheri is not met with this level of venomous aggression. Maybe it is sexism, or maybe her fearlessness and confidence are obvious even to new listeners. Regardless, I think the portion of our audience that we enflame is wise to direct their aggression toward me as Sheri takes having no more fucks to give to a whole different level.

Accumulation

Accumulation

Audio version now available.

 

I listened to a podcast interview of Anne Applebaum, a journalist and historian who has been, for the past 35 years, studying and writing about how budding aristocracies grab power and, eventually, destroy economies. I learned a lot and found the interview both fascinating and terrifying. But I missed some of what she said because I was distracted. I was distracted pondering the fact that I don’t have 35 years.

 

I study and write about intimacy and addiction. In 35 years I’ll be in my late 80s, and no one wants to read about sex from a person approaching the century mark, although Betty White cracked sex jokes all the way to the end. But I’ll be an old man, not an old woman, so where she sounded spunky and vibrant, I’ll just sound creepy and perverted.

 

The clarity of permanent sobriety is mostly a good thing. But the clarity brings with it a growing sense of lost potential. Like what if I started my half-century quest for knowledge in my 30s instead of my mid 40s?

Selling Out

Selling Out

When Sheri saw the “For Sale” sign in our front yard as we pulled into the driveway on Saturday afternoon, it choked her up. We’ve been working so hard to get ready for this, but preparation doesn’t dismiss the emotions when they come. I took a video of our house – this inanimate object, this material possession – when it was painted and staged and as clean as it has ever been, and I was surprised to have to fight back tears as I narrated the ways we used each room over the past twenty years.

March without the Madness

March without the Madness

I’m not quite the lunatic I used to be. And nothing used to bring out the crazy like the aptly named March Madness basketball tournament.

 

In four years at Indiana University, I never missed a home game, and knew exactly where to stand above the tunnel to touch Bobby Knight’s shoulder as the team came back out after halftime. Creepy much? Knight received technical fouls for throwing things on the court twice. I don’t know where the chair is, but the program he threw against Boston University on December 13, 1991 is framed in my basement. So when I attended a bachelor party weekend in Las Vegas half-a-dozen years later, confident that I knew more about college basketball than the odds makers, my lunacy kept me placing double-or-nothing bets, just trying to get back to even, until the only thing left on which to wager was a West Coast NBA game. I took the under and felt vindicated until I realized that the sufficiently low score was tied, and the game was going into overtime. Meanwhile, my fiance, Sheri, was perplexed as her debit card was declined when she tried to rent a movie at Blockbuster. I proceeded to get so drunk that I was kicked out of a dance club that night. Twice (I’m not sure how I got back in for round two of drunken belligerence). I woke up the next morning in the hotel room I shared with eight guys, lying in a puddle of my own puke. (Should that be lay or lie? Given the vulgarity of the rest of the sentence, I am not sure it matters.) Later that day, I told Sheri about the $1,200 I lost amidst a crowd at the O’Hare Airport. I thought it less likely that she’d kill me in front of all those people.