Cheryl’s Corners

Dear readers,

During the next few months, I will be writing a series of articles for you regarding the challenges of long-term marriages. I have been receiving hundreds of e-mails from women and men in marriages of over 30 years who are considering or already have divorced. Each day I get phone calls or visits from college age students who are devastated that their parents have suddenly decided to separate. And, of course, we are all seeing the media frenzy over Al and Tipper Gore.

I don’t have the answers. I’m not sure that I even know the questions to be examined. But, as always, I do know the truths of what I have learned through living. I do not know if these truths are right or wrong. I can only hope that they can provide some insight into this issue of how to be happy in a long term marriage. This is the first time in history that we are living long enough for couples to actually face wonders and problems that we have never experienced before in our relationships. Most of us were not prepared for this.

I will do my best to present you with all the problems, right moves, and downright mistakes I have made in my efforts to save and strengthen my marriage as my husband and I faced difficulties we never expected during the past few years of our 32 years of marriage. May this give hope to both those who are just beginning to fall in love and to couples who are living the roller coaster of lengthy marriages.

Let the journey begin.

Love,

Cheryl

Once upon a time, I would come home from teaching at night and find my husband zoned out in front of the television set. Eyes glassy, slack-jawed, remote control very nearly growing roots in his hand, he was a stone wall. He would not be moved. I could have thrown off my clothes, screamed at the top of my lungs and performed a one woman Can-Can number with sparklers and he probably would have asked me not to block the television. It took years of work for the two of us to arrive at a reasonable level of communication. He had to learn to be more aware of what was going on with me. I had to learn that his cluelessness was just that. Throughout those years, I used to imagine what it would be like to have a husband so eager to spend time with me that he would voluntarily go shopping with me, or call in to check up on me, or plan date nights to make me happy, or beg me just to spend a few minutes with him. I wanted a husband who was also my best friend and most intimate confidante.

And all I have to say to that, ladies, is:

Be careful what you wish for.

Fast forward to now. My husband is devoted. He’s affectionate. He’s open. He wants to be together all the time. He cares so much about being with me; he’ll crawl in the passenger seat when I’m headed to the mall. He’ll ask me to lunch. He’ll turn down weekends with the guys in order to take me to the beach. And I love him for it. I really do.  But sometimes, honestly, I feel a tad claustrophobic. Not only that, I feel guilty when I spend time alone because I need that time alone. And let me tell you, this is totally unexpected.

At forty years old, the idea of being overwhelmed by a needy husband was impossible–no exaggeration. I’m talking full-on black hole paradox. It could not happen, would not happen! It didn’t matter if he was at home or out; he wasn’t present. Now my husband, who’s closer to sixty than forty, is almost like another child. He clings to me. He needs me. He seeks my approval. And I? With one son in college and one about to finish high school, I feel more independent and more protective of my own space. I am more committed to my own needs than ever before.  I’ve spent the last two decades in a world of testosterone as I tried with the greatest difficulty to express words of female empowerment. I’ve been surrounded by men—charming and lovable as they are, but men nonetheless. I need my space, a separate piece of square footage that isn’t looming over me with hundreds of daily chores and tasks. I need the proverbial room of my own.

This paradox, this unbelievable reversal, this completely unexpected turn of events may be shocking to me personally, but it’s not abnormal. This is the common condition of the middle-aged marriage in the 21st century.

I know a lot of women right now, whose husbands are slowing down at work or retiring completely. These men find themselves at home, more or less all day for the first time in forty years. No deadlines, no projects, no business trips, no staff. If he’s handy, maybe there’s a short list of household projects he’s been putting off for a couple of years (or a couple of decades). If he’s crafty, he might toy with his camera or tinker with that book he’s been talking about since he was twenty-six. He might even find some new physical outlets for his extra time—walking, biking, golfing, and hiking. But there’s only so long he can spend on a bike, on the yard, on the rec room renovation or glued to CNN before he gets bored and comes to you looking for something to do.

Remember the part before where I said a middle-aged husband was not unlike another child? Well, this situation is not all that different than having a bright, if under-occupied nine-year-old over summer vacation. He completes a cycle of piddling projects, and then comes in to report to you. He might not tell you he’s bored (which a nine year old usually does), but his body language certainly will and further that he expects you to fix it. And sadly, unlike that nine-year-old, you can’t send your husband to Day Camp.

I don’t want to be over-dramatic here, but of late, sometimes it makes me crazy. His work may have slowed down, but my work is heating up. As an author, I need my space and time to write. And if I can’t write; I am, in part, denying who I am.

Thus, I rented a little condo (which is actually much cheaper than renting office space.) It is the perfect author’s office. It is a reprieve, a room of my own, absent testosterone.  I can work and write and invite my girlfriends over for a glass of wine.  I don’t have to apologize to anyone about how I spend my time. I can actually feel my high blood pressure drop as I look up from my writing without seeing all the little jobs that are waiting for me at home. I can sit on my small balcony and meditate in silent prayer. I am at peace. At home, I live in our space. This is mine (at least until about 5:00 PM.) After five, it turns into anything from a “party pad” for my sons, a family game-night, to a private night for me and my husband.

Women between fifty and sixty years old are more likely than any other group to seek divorce.  Some of this is probably related to biology, the changes in body chemistry wrought by menopause, the adjustments of age, and the adjustments to an empty nest. But I contend this impulse to separate is also related to the fact that men and women are often in very different places in their fifties. Factor in the additional stresses of living in this world at this time and you have a perfect storm of disquiet on the home front.

In many cases, a divorce at fifty-five can lead to a lot of regrets at seventy. Divorce is a huge decision. And when you’re approaching sixty years young, the ramifications are overwhelming to say the least. So instead of further complicating an already daunting future, it’s my recommendation that you get downright creative. We’re all grown-ups here. We can, as they say, think outside the box.

I’m not suggesting that everyone need follow the exact path that I did (condo, counseling, re-directing priorities—not necessarily in that order), but I do believe that time and patience are our best allies. Marriage is a journey and some stretches are more taxing than others. I’m trying out this condo idea on a month to month basis. What feels right today may not feel right tomorrow. Or my paycheck may get clobbered by the economy. The best I can do is take things one day at a time. I’m taking care of myself mentally, physically, and spiritually. I let my husband know how much I love him and how we will build and strengthen our very “long-term” marriage.

Be brave. Be patient. And ask yourself what would you do differently in your life if you were not afraid?

Most of all, be happy. Happiness brings my husband and me to the “bottom line.” We have been having the best “date nights” of out entire 32 year marriage in my little office condo. He is still the man who makes me smile and keeps me warm at night.

It’s a beautiful April weekend.

To take advantage of warm spring afternoon, you decide to dig out some of last summer’s clothes in order to set on your deck or do a little gardening.  Unless you’re living deep in the Sun Belt, chances are those shorts are buried deep in the drawer, somewhere near the bathing suits. It’s treacherous territory down there, because even thinking about putting on a bathing suit at this stage in the game is enough to make some of us wish for six more weeks of winter, in which we might be finally able to shed those ten pounds we picked up around the holidays and haven’t exactly gotten around to losing yet.

If it’s any consolation, you’re not alone. Summer adds a lot our general wellbeing and peace of mind—fresh fruit and vegetables, bright sunny days full of Vitamin D, the ability to walk barefoot across the grass, etc.—but for all those myriad benefits, summer can also mean an assault on our self-esteem. Less clothes means less body coverage. There’s just no way to hide the fact that you don’t look like the cover of Marie Claire. All around us, in every grocery store checkout line, during every commercial break we are fed images of teenagers with biologically improbable physiques and Photo shopped faces selling (and it is selling) us some notion that in order to enjoy the warm weather, we must spend a small fortune on a new weight loss regime so we can fit into a designer swimsuit that appears to consist of a couple of cocktail napkins and some shoelaces.

Of course, the rational part of your brain knows better than to take too much offense. Any crisis of self-esteem brought upon by the changing of the season is at least half the fault of marketers and media moguls, whose bottom line depends on making you covet celebrity looks and shell out for lycra shapers and low-fat TV dinners.

Science has proven that the media can completely accomplish their goal of making us feel “unattractive” in 7 seconds or less. Advertisers count on this just as they count on us to forget models are “computerized” to look flawless. It is as if we are expected to feel bad about ourselves.

But this year, I’d like to offer a different approach.

Instead of looking toward the summer months frustrated by everything we’re not, I’d like to challenge all of you to take a little moment out of every day to celebrate the real-life women we really are. By golly we are INCREDIBLE! See that mirror you just walked past? Smile, sparkle, and look deep into your eyes and see the woman that thrives in your heart and soul. Love her with every cell of your being. She is smart, unique, brave, compassionate, and so amazingly generous with her love that you see tears of joy. Now you are looking at a woman who is truly beautiful, inside and out. There is no advertisement that can even come close to showing this beauty! So I am asking all of you. Instead of looking at some air-brushed ad for 7 seconds, look at yourself. Throw those shoulders back, hold your head up, and stand tall as you celebrate an unprecedented, one of a kind beauty that is you! This is a self-improvement scheme that requires no membership fees or monthly payments. All you have to do is acknowledge that you are FABULOUS every day and enjoy renewing your sense of confidence in every way.

A bathing suit is just a piece of cloth. You can certainly stand up to it and show it who’s boss!

Enjoy life and the beautiful weather,