Every day, I follow the same mental health regimen. I read two advice columns, Dear Amy, and my personal favorite, Dear Kibitzer, and instantly feel better just knowing that the problems of this little SJG don't amount to a hill of beans, compared to all the other troubled souls in this crazy world. Sometimes the advice-givers are so wise, I take their suggestions out for a test drive. The other day, a frustrated spouse asked Amy how to reconnect with his wife, a standoffish gal who's pretty chintzy with the affection. Amy told him to "devote 10 minutes each day to looking her in the eye, stroking her hand and asking questions and listening." Naturally, I challenged hubby to do the same. I bet him he couldn't do it without cracking up, losing his mind, or falling asleep. "Oh, you think so?" he said, whereupon he looked me in the eye and patted my hand while I shared some important concerns.
"We're almost out of dog food," I said. He stroked my hand. "Uh-huh." "I noticed the sink is cracked in the guest room." He touched my knuckles. "Aw." "Sometimes, I feel like you'd rather wash the car, than my hair, like, the way Robert Redford does in that movie... with Meryl Streep, the one where she says, 'I had a faarrrrmmm in AFF-ri-Ka...' How come you never wash my hair while I bask in the sun outside, like Meryl?" He petted my left pinky. "I could hose you, and the dog off at the same time. Would that work for you?" "That would be wonderful. I feel so connected now." He caressed my right thumb. "Good talk." "Hey, come back here. It hasn't been 10 minutes."
No comments:
Post a Comment