I’ll be honest, this blog isn’t my idea. While my wife is the sort of person who doesn’t hesitate to spill details to strange passersby, I am of a different stripe. For example, it took me three years of cohabitation with her before I divulged my middle name.
An exaggeration? Possibly. But it is fair to say that our definitions of “private” are found in different dictionaries (and likely written in different languages).
Good fences make good neighbours they say, and I’m inclined to agree. I strongly believe in well-defined boundaries and I practice that by keeping certain thoughts and feelings to myself. My wife would say by that I mean all thoughts and feelings, but this isn’t her blog entry, so she can paint my emotional rigidity with as many bold strokes as she wants. This is my space.
So I will endeavour to offer my side of the never-ending man/woman linguistic tango, but you’ll have to bear with me. I don’t offer up personal insight with ease and it will take a little getting used to, like a stiff chesterfield with starchy new upholstery. This reminds me of the time that I let my wife choose the colour of the new couch while I picked the style, a decision that has left us without a fold-out bed but an endless line “I told you so” recriminations.
You see? That took me twenty-five minutes to type and that’s not even counting the consideration beforehand. I can only hope it will get easier.
Oh, and remind me to tell you about the bathroom painting fiasco. I once referred to it as the “apocalypse of martial strife”.
Maybe I will enjoy this…
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