Successful marriages are built on foundations. The overriding foundation is where each person stands in his or her relationship with Jesus Christ. Another one is the capacity of a husband and wife to build a solid practice of communication.
We men are at an immediate disadvantage in this endeavor. First, we are expected to ‘know’ things without being explicitly told what is we are to ‘know.’ When our wives, with deep exasperation, tell us what it is we’re supposed to ‘know,’ we scratch our heads and wonder how could we ‘know’ that?
We quickly dedicate ourselves to ‘knowing’ that for the next time. In the nick of time too. The commercial is over, and the game returns.
In addition, our wives have an advantage. We men are simple creatures. For example, she learns she must wait until either halftime or the end of the game to speak to us. If his team wins, it’s a good time to talk since he will be in a better mood to know what it is he should know. If his team loses, she walks away. His team lost, and that’s all he can know at the moment.
Recently, April and I shared a mutual experience. We were in it together. Afterwards, I mentioned that on a scale of 1-10, I would give it a 3.
Neither April nor I knew this, but we operate on different scales. She uses the Medical Scale, the one you see in doctors’ offices. They give you a chart with numbers one through ten, ten being worst, and ask you what your level of pain is. It’s clear and works for everyone attached to the medical field.
I use the Bo Derek scale, which utilizes ‘ten’ as the best. I use that because she’s Bo Derek, and she knows stuff.
When April heard me say ‘3’ out of a scale of one to ten, she’s thinking, “Dan liked that. This experience has potential.” But I’m thinking, “I didn’t care for that experience at all. It has little potential.” You see how communication is so important between a husband and wife?
A mere few days later, I come down with a sore throat and a horrible cough. April asks me to grade it on a scale. (You see where this is going, right?) I say, “7 or 8.” On the Bo Derek scale, that means it’s not a 10, but it’s okay. Not too bad. I’ll live to see another day. Probably tomorrow. By Saturday, I’ll be ready to play disc golf.
When April hears ‘7 or 8,’ she goes into nursing overload. In her mind, I’m on the edge of 10, which means a future fatality. My days of playing disc golf are over. May I rest in peace. But she doesn’t want to lose me, bless her heart. I appreciate that about her. She likes me.
Not long after that, I walk into our kitchen. On the counter is every sore throat remedy known to mankind. Some of the bottles and boxes I’ve heard of and even used before. The other stuff—where did all that come from? Pittsburgh? Madagascar? Derived from the toenails of an orangutan?
She’s not only wanting to cure my sore throat, she wants to turn it into a smooth-operating Panama Canal.
It was time for a conference with April. My life might be at stake here. Suppose I told her, using my Bo Derek Scale, that I had a headache of ‘8 or 9.’ In my mind, just give me some aspirin, and I’ll be okay. On April’s Medical Scale, an ‘8 or 9’ means I need brain surgery.
April hasn’t been trained to operate on my brain. Not that she wouldn’t try if she felt she had to. As I said earlier, she likes me. But, ultimately, she would fail. People would be coming up to her at my funeral and saying, “Well, you tried.”
Our husband-wife conference went well. She explained she uses the Medical Scale because she wants me to live forever. I explained I use the Bo Derek Scale because, well, she’s Bo Derek, and she knows stuff. Clear communication leads to a peaceful Ashton household once again.
I’m with April!