There must be a book out there somewhere entitled “Things Men Shouldn’t Do”. And if it’s not a book, then it’s a honking long list, one that is regularly amended to reflect changes wrought by the passing of years while at the same time maintaining the time honoured verboten zones identified at such great cost to men through the ages. I’m pretty sure the entry that read “don’t take on sabre-tooth tigers with a sling” has been deleted, and no doubt the cautionary clause suggesting that “Allah Akbar” not be shouted at a Crusader Christmas dinner has been overtaken by the eons. And I am equally convinced that somewhere on that list are notes clearly stating that men shouldn’t play ice-hockey without a cup, should not rely on attached instructions when attempting to assemble a new bar-b-que and should not shop for their mothers at Victoria’s Secrets.
But at the head of the list, and emphasized in italics at the start of each section, should be the one irrevocable rule. The one that states MEN SHOULD NOT ARGUE WITH THEIR WIVES. All married men understand why the rule has primacy, why the rule has withstood the challenges of time, and, more importantly, what the costs are for breaking that particular rule.
I reckon that if the original author and guardian of the list died at the tender age of 41, moments after forgetting his own first rule, his successor took note and lived his full three score and ten.
There are costs associated with slavish devotion to Rule # 1. But generally speaking they do not outweigh the benefits. Nonetheless, that there are side effects must be recognized.
I have been married for a long (long) time. Although the definition of long will vary from relationship to relationship the fact that I have survived a long (long) time cohabitating with my wife does prove that I have shown faith in the veracity of “the rule”, but let me tell you, it comes at a price.
For example, I have long since given up attempting to explain micro (and macro) economics. When She Who Must Be Obeyed indicates that “we” need a new set of dishes I don’t suggest we wait six months for the tax rebate to get in, rather, I ask what colour. I no longer express opinions about American Idol, CBC News or when we are going to PEI on holiday. Regardless of taste I waste no time in telling her that a. dinner was delicious, and b. pink upholstery is perfect for the sofa. But I do physically wince in anticipation when I can see her beautiful mind coming up with a new idea.
Case in point. Just the other weekend, while enjoying my morning coffee on the deck, taking in the wonderful sun of an early summer, my delightful wife suggested that something had to be done to the wild rose bush that borders our property. It was getting too big, needed trimming, and should be tied to a trellis (in order, I presumed, to provide it some sort of horticultural discipline).
I winced, remembered the first rule, and said “Yes Dear”. Physical fear assailed me. But not so much as to make me even consider voicing my disagreement.
You see, this rose bush is in fact three rose bushes. At their highest they stand well over ten feet tall. Their total circumference rivals small redwoods and they have an area of influence that extends out well beyond my reach. They are impressive plants. Uninhibited, wild and standing proud in the belief of their own invincibility. To add to their intimidating stature, they come armed with thousands upon thousands of thorns. Adorning every branch, every stalk and every trunk associated with these bushes. It is clear that these things are dangerous, and a menace to anything that wanders close to them. And my wife was absolutely correct; they were getting big, did need trimming and likely needed a touch of discipline imposed on them. The problem as I saw it was that I wasn’t the man for the job.
This wee horticultural dilemma needed a modern day Paul Bunyan, armed with axe, chainsaw, a shiny suit of armour and some attitude (and supported by Babe the Blue Ox along with all his muscular siblings).
I looked around in hope but wasn’t surprised to see that Mr Bunyan was nowhere in sight. In fact the only thing I saw was my cowardly dog slinking out to the front yard wearing his not my problem buddy expression on his face and SWMBO draining the last of my coffee.
Realizing my options were pretty limited I resigned myself to the task and started gearing up for the enterprise. Changing from my shorts into a thick pair of Wranglers and donning an old hockey sweater over my t-shirt I went searching for my gloves. Sorrowfully discarding two catcher’s mitts for not allowing sufficient dexterity I settled for my newest and stiffest pair of leather gardening gloves. Although I spent as much time as I could searching for some twine and the pruning shears (in the hopes that my wife would head off shopping and give me time to devise a evasion strategy) eventually I was as ready as I would ever be.
A blow by blow account of the struggle isn’t really necessary. Suffice to say that after hours of dodging thorns (badly), wrestling branches (poorly), bleeding (prodigiously) and sweating through six layers of clothing I determined that the job was done. My wife, tired of my piteous moaning and herself exhausted from removing sixty-four thorns from various parts of my anatomy, allowed that the rose, if not subdued, was sufficiently chastised for me to cease my labours.
As she went back to the deck, the rose and I eyed each other cautiously, but with a certain degree of respect. The rose acknowledging that judicious applications of binder twine eased the strain on its hanging branches and, me, realizing just what the Chinese meant in describing death by one thousand cuts. We were quits.
I have subsequently been searching for the address of the guy that looks after the damn list. Don’t get me wrong, I still am an adherent of the first rule, I just reckon a new entry should be added: Men shouldn’t wrestle with rose bushes.