Another Marital Spat

Until today, it had never occurred to me to look up the definition of spat.  I was genuinely surprised.  “A past tense and a past participle of spit.”  (I should have guessed that.)  “A larva of an oyster or similar bivalve that has settled by attaching to a surface.”  (That one, I did not see.) “A cloth or leather gaiter covering the shoe upper and the ankle and fastening under the shoe with a strap: The waiter wore spats as part of his uniform.”  (Way too young to have known that!) “A slight quarrel.”  (Finally, the definition I was looking for.)  War portends breakups.  Fights cause casualties.  Spats indicate a strength of love that endures disagreements without letting them get out of hand.

Some people wonder how my wife and I survived over forty-nine years of marriage and remain happily bonded and on a friendly basis.  The answer is simple—she’s an angel.  Of course, there are different levels of angels: cherubim, seraphim, messengers and warriors.  I’m sure she has had to switch gears from time to time in order to deal with my idiosyncrasies and shortcomings.  (My dad used to talk about the man who called his wife an angel.  “She is always up in the air, harping on something!”)  Not my wife.  She has her feet firmly planted on the ground and she never harps.  She speaks in measured, reasonable, understandable tones.

And yet, some things do rise to the spat level.  Like when I think the thermometer should be left out in plain sight, but she thinks everything should be put away in a drawer.  (I have to guess which drawer.)  Or, when she starts talking to me in the middle of her thought process, using first names or non-specific pronouns, even though I have no idea who, what, when or where she means.  Or, when she asks me a question to which I give an answer, and then, a few moments later, she asks the same question.  (No, she hasn’t forgotten my answer.  It just was not the answer she wanted to hear.)  Usually, after she explains, clarifies and emphasizes her point of view, I see the light and give her the answer she wanted in the first place.  (I’m no dummy.)

Now, I’m doing my best to come up with some things that I do that causes angst on her part, but I’m having trouble thinking of anything.  I can’t imagine there’s anything wrong with holing up in my office for hours on end or forbidding her to so much as run a vacuum or dust my window blinds.  I occasionally act like an idiot on the roadway or give another driver a good scolding (from within my car with the windows rolled up), but those things are pretty normal.  Nothing to see here.  Oh, and I handle the bill-paying, and there are times when I overlook an invoice and get charged a late fee, but I’m always able to pay the fee without serious consequences.  (What’s the problem?) 

The point is this—we keep everything to a spat level. Just this morning, for example, we got on each other’s case for something (I can’t remember what).  When she walked away with a slightly exasperated grin on her face, I totally disarmed her by saying loudly, “I love you!”  That’s how you turn forty-nine years into fifty.