Not quite the marriage expert

I’ve long considered giving marriage lessons. Not because I consider myself an expert on it, but because I find myself perplexed by some of the current trends. Sessions would include titles like, “No, we are not pregnant!” and “If your wife wanted someone to weep along with her, she would have married her best friend”.

I had mapped out learning paths and semesters with differing levels of skill and qualifications, all the way through to a master’s level in husbandry.

And then I was schooled.

It happened this past Shabbat, when my brother asked me to guide a visiting couple to his house for lunch. He had to leave a bit earlier and didn’t want them to get lost. I readily agreed, and mentioned this to my wife, because there was a reasonable chance that I would forget. “Sure” she said, “But Howard, don’t leave me alone with them. You know I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

I assured her that this would never happen.

And I meant it. Until we started walking. And I got chatting to a friend. And we found ourselves about 110m ahead of the couple and my wife. But the conversation was interesting. “She’s going to kill me,” I told my friend when I realised what I was doing. He, too, is married and assured me it would be worth it.

And so, we continued in our wicked ways.

To make matters worse, en route, we decided that we needed to attend a mincha service. This would include a quick whiskey or two, and some biltong ahead of prayer.

There was no limit to the depth I would go.

I was shameless. And my behaviour was objectively appalling. I deserved whatever was to come my way.

“I’m sorry I left you,” I said sheepishly when I finally saw her. I braced myself, fully prepared for what was to follow.

“Don’t stress,” she said. “It was actually good for me. And they are such lovely people.”

I was devastated. “Scuse me?” I stumbled. “You need to be irritated. I demand that you are annoyed! I deserved it!” It was honestly like she no longer cared. And that didn’t feel good.

My confidence was shattered. I started to question everything I thought I knew.

I clearly wasn’t half the expert I thought I was.

And then, on Tuesday night, she called me into the kitchen to ask my “honest” opinion of something she had made. I wasn’t required to taste it but just to give feedback visually. “I’m not sure it works,” I said sensitively. “I think it needs to be larger and more symmetrical.”

“Seriously?” was her response. “I have no idea why I bothered to ask you. You’re overtired and irrational. And maybe you should get an early night so that you can pull yourself together.”

And just like that, she was back. And I felt safe and secure. Order was restored to my world, and once again, I felt at peace. My confidence surged, content in the knowledge that I was still loved.

Maybe I’ll do a bit more research before kicking off those masterclasses.