Читать книгу How to Be a Husband - Tim Dowling - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTake a moment to cast your eyes around my domain: this blasted promontory, wracked by foul winds, devoid of life, of cheer, of comfort. This is my special place – my fortress of solitude. I’ve been coming here on and off for the last twenty years. Welcome, my friend, to the moral high ground.
Sit down. Do you want some tea? I’m afraid they only do oat milk up here. It’s the moral high ground – what did you expect? There are some salt-free rice cakes on the shelf there. They’re a bit joyless, but help yourself – just make sure you put 10p in the honesty box.
What were we talking about? Oh yeah: so, earlier today my wife was giving me a hard time about not putting the ladder back in the shed. I told her it was pointless keeping the ladder in the shed because I use it all the time, almost exclusively in the house; that it was much more convenient and sensible to store it at the back of the cupboard under the stairs, like we used to before we got the shed. And by the way: why wasn’t I consulted about the switch in the first place?
My wife responded by saying that, at any rate, the ladder didn’t live in the middle of the sitting room, where it had been all weekend, and went on to imply that I was just being lazy and also, quite possibly, a twat. Then I said: OK, this is not about the ladder any more. This is about the proper way to conduct discourse between adults. I refuse on principle – on principle! – to engage with a person who would resort to such a personal attack. Someone has to make a stand against this sort of thing, I said, and for that reason no ladders will be moved today. And that’s how I ended up here, on the moral high ground. It’s like a VIP room for idiots.
I don’t remember the subject of the first big argument I had with my wife, only its aftermath. I’m sure it began, as in the example above, with some trivial domestic dispute – a failure to do something on my part, let’s assume – which quickly escalated into a frank exploration of my inadequacies.
It is perhaps a year before we are married. At some point during the argument I decide my character is being assailed in a manner incompatible with my dignity. I say as much, and storm out of her flat, slamming the door as hard as I can behind me, heading straight for the moral high ground. I stomp downstairs and slam the front door, not quite as hard, because its maintenance is covered by a costly leasehold agreement.
I stand on the front step for a moment, breathing hard and basking in the hot glow of my righteous anger, until it dawns on me that I have no money and don’t know anyone in London who would automatically take my side in this, or any other, matter. I toy with the idea of going back upstairs to pick up the fight where I left off – as if I’d just thought of another point worth making – but I don’t have any keys. The hot glow wears off. It’s cold and windy, and my dramatic exit had not afforded an opportunity to grab a coat on the way out. I look up and down the darkening street. Wherever the moral high ground is, I think, it ain’t out here. I quickly realize that the only decision left to make is whether I count to thirty or sixty before swallowing my pride. I settle on sixty, give up at forty-five, congratulate myself on my willingness to compromise, and push the bell.
‘Hello?’ she says.
‘Can I come back in?’ I say.
‘Sorry, who is this?’
Since that day I’ve gradually learned to be more cautious about sticking my flag on any summit of self-righteousness. Claiming the moral high ground is, in the end, just a tactic, one that trial and error has demonstrated doesn’t work very well on my wife. If, for example, I were to leap out of a vehicle my wife was driving during a heated argument – ostensibly because I, a man of quiet sense, could no longer share such a confined space with someone so unreasonable – I know she would not creep along the pavement with the passenger window down, begging me to get back in while conceding that she may have spoken rashly. I’ve tested this, and experience has taught me that she will actually speed off before I’ve had a chance to shut the door. She will not come back, even if it’s raining, nor will she subsequently ring me to find out how I’m coping with my choices.
A relationship expert I once interviewed over the phone about argument techniques (I was looking for shortcuts and cheats, to be honest) asked me, ‘Do you want to be right or do you want to have sex tonight?’ At the time the whole idea of ceding one’s claim to the moral high ground in order not to jeopardize the prospect of future intercourse struck me as highly unethical, although I had to admit it also sounded like the sort of thing I would do. Still, it wasn’t fair. Why can’t I have sex and be right? In a perfect world, my wife would want to sleep with me because I’m right.
The relationship expert, much as it pains me to say it, had a point. In the context of marriage, a moral victory is something you’ll invariably end up celebrating on your own. If you’re going to get on in married life – if you’re going to have sex ever – you’ve got to learn to lose an argument. And to do that, you’ve got to learn how to be wrong. I honestly don’t know where the work of being a good husband finishes, but I have an idea where it starts. It starts with counting to sixty, giving up at forty-five, and pushing the bell.
Unfortunately being wrong does not come easy to men, even when they are very, very wrong. A man will go to great lengths just to avoid being put in a position where he might be obliged to express uncertainty.
‘Why don’t you just say “I don’t know”?’ my wife will sometimes shout, after I’ve just spent ten minutes trying create the opposite impression. What does she expect? If you don’t want my impersonation of expertise, don’t ask me questions I can’t answer.
In the company of other men, being wrong is almost impossible to live down; that’s why we spend so much time debating points that can’t be settled one way or another – the hypothetical and the unknowable: the outcome of future sporting events, alternative tactics that might have affected the outcome of past sporting events, the true motivations of politicians, economic forecasts, etc. That’s why fishing is such a perfect communal activity for men: you can spend an entire day speculating about what might be happening underwater. Once upon a time we could also argue over areas of shared historical and scientific ignorance, but the smart phone put paid to all that: circumference of the sun? 4,366,813 kilometres; Plantagenet kings? Got it right here, mate.
Women tend be more forgiving about wrongness. Some women, in my experience, will even defer to a man’s pronouncements on a subject when he’s clearly wrong – when everyone else in the room is thinking: you’re wrong – if only to avoid denting his fragile ego in public.
My wife is not one of those women. She does not draw a big distinction between denting my fragile ego in public and denting it at home. It’s one of the reasons I love her, and it’s also one of the reasons I won’t play tennis with her. It can’t be a bad thing for a man to learn to admit his mistakes with grace, or even, initially, without grace.
While arguing is inevitable in a marriage, protracted disputes can be damaging to a relationship and are often avoidable. There usually comes a time in the middle of a heated argument when you realize you would rather be doing something else: watching TV perhaps, or eating. But if you have any sense at all you will not attempt to suspend hostilities by saying, ‘Ooh, that thing is about to start on BBC2’ or ‘You know what? I could really go for some M&Ms right now.’
Conversely it is rare to be struck, mid-argument, by the sudden realization that you are wrong. That tends to happen much later, when you’re sitting by yourself trying to figure out why you didn’t win. It’s too late to be wrong then.
Over many years I have learned the trick of amalgamating these two different types of epiphany. When you begin to lose interest in an argument either because you’re hungry or bored or because you’ve simply run out of steam, scan your brain for ways in which you could be wrong. This can be difficult for men – at first it may even feel as if your brain won’t allow it – but this handy checklist should give you some clue as to the error of your ways:
Seven Ways in Which You Might be Wrong
The wrongness of omission. Have you deliberately withheld some evidence that supports the counterposition? Introduce it as if you think it will help you, and then sit back and allow yourself to be taken apart.
The wrongness of not listening. This has the advantage of almost always being true – you probably haven’t been listening properly. You need to apologize, and then start listening, but that’s all you have to do. Your contribution to the debate has finished. From now on, just nod.
The wrongness of forgetting your original purpose. Arguments often lead you down little strategic alleyways in search of short-term advantage, and it’s easy to lose your way, especially if feelings are running high. But it’s perfectly feasible to close your rant with the words, ‘and I’ve now forgotten why I even started this sentence!’ If you allow your partner to reassemble the broken pieces of your argument for you, you will almost always end up with a more charitable interpretation of your logic than you deserve.
The wrongness of underestimating your partner’s emotional investment in the issue. This is the point at which you say, ‘I had no idea you felt so strongly about this’, although what you probably mean is, ‘I’ve just realized I don’t feel strongly about this at all.’ It’s not your fault. Righteous anger is an opportunist emotion – it can desert you at weird times.
The wrongness of making it All About You. It is rare for my wife and I to have a serious argument in which she does not at some stage say, ‘It has to be all about you, doesn’t it?’ In my extensive experience it’s almost impossible to respond to such a challenge without making your answer All About You.
The wrongness of giving an ultimatum. Whoops! Did you just draw a line in the sand? I think we both know you didn’t mean to do that. When has brinkmanship ever worked for you in the past? My wife never blinks in these matters: she knows I’m going all-in with the argumentative equivalent of a pair of fours.
The wrongness of being a bit of a cock. All you have to say in this case is, ‘Perhaps I’m being a bit of a cock about this, but …’ You might get a denial in return, although you shouldn’t hold your breath.
Now all you have to do is find a way to acknowledge your error and give up. This is not a simple matter of saying, ‘Hang on a minute – I think I’m wrong!’ and flicking on the TV. If you’re going to be wrong, you’ve got to look wrong, even if that means mimicking a last-ditch attempt to save face.
Use whatever technique works best for you. Say ‘Huh’ dismissively and then let an awkward silence bloom. Or fold your arms, sit down and stare at your shoes for a full minute – a classic. Try conceding in a way that doesn’t sound at all conciliatory, by saying something such as ‘I’m wrestling with the unattractive possibility that you may have a point.’
Here’s one I use a lot, even now: I just say, ‘Whatever.’
‘Whatever’ has a reputation as a meaningless piece of conversational shorthand, but it’s actually terribly useful when conceding an argument. It acknowledges someone’s right to an opinion without necessarily giving it credence, and, depending on your inflection, it can also imply that while life is too important to waste time fighting, your willingness to make peace – to be the bigger person – comes at some emotional cost. Best of all, it does all this gracelessly. The other person will assume that having lost your case on points, you are seeking to abandon the discussion before a humiliating climbdown becomes necessary. With ‘whatever’, everybody walks away with something.
