Finding Adventure in the Simple

When my husband and I sat across the breakfast table two mornings ago, I should have just copped to the truth at the outset: I had, in fact, been trying to avoid the question he’d been asking repeatedly since we’d arrived at our country “cabin” the week before, the space in which we’d spent so much time relaxing together as companions.

Certainly, I had the chance to say “no” when he’d questioned me with those blue eyes of his—eyes that held an imploring expression, as he’d repeated his question at least four times by now. It was if he were thinking: she knows she’s guilty of ignoring me, and she’s not about to tell me she’s really messing up this time around. No, she’s opting to ignore my mood—and my need. In an effort to avoid Phil’s gaze, I just stared down into my coffee mug, whose contents had grown cold as the silence between us grew thicker.

I observed with surprise how nonchalant I was about turning aside my husband’s request, particularly since it had been such an open-hearted and reasonable one. I wished that I could have been honest and just admitted I’d made a mistake. A heartfelt I’m sorry to this man I loved so much should have come next, but it didn’t. Instead, I allowed my desire to preserve my preferred image of myself —as a super-considerate partner—to push its way to the front of the line. Playing dumb, I’d asked, So honey, what’s up? The question was met with a loud bark.

A whine filtered up from under the table then, and after peeking, I saw Fannie Mae stationed at Phil’s side, our sweet lab-mix—a dog who demonstrated not an ounce of intuitive power or grit. But even the typically clueless Fannie seemed to understand what was going on. Had she’d been able to talk, she might have summed up the issue squarely: You know perfectly well that you promised to help my buddy lay a mountain of mulch around this property. And you haven’t. You ditched him and this project! He needs help! What the hell are you doing?

Guilty as charged.

It took nearly a week for my generally upbeat spouse to lose his smile. Even before our arrival at our cabin-over-the-river, he’d been upfront about his hope that we would spend some time together working around the yard. Excited to enjoy time away from the city, Phil had several projects underway, one of which he’d pegged as perfect for us to complete as a duo. What’s on your schedule? he’d ask each morning, his tone both cheery and hopeful. Are you ready for some FUN?

And each time, I’d brushed off his enthusiasm with a different query: how about tomorrow? I’d ask. Not once had my version of “Not today,” come with a full disclosure about why I was turning him down. I’d justified my rebuffs with an explanation about how I was busy trying to meet not one, but two writing deadlines. This had been the truth, but not the whole truth: the fact was that the big FUN my husband had in mind for us had absolutely zero appeal for me.

The project involved loading, transporting, and spreading some one-hundred-and-fifty bags of woodchips over uneven terrain. Bag after bag would have to be hauled up into raised flower beds. It wasn’t the multiple trips to a distant hardware store for the shredded bark, or the physical labor that bothered me, however. Rather, it was the steady thirty-five degree temperatures and intermittent rain that had seemed too hard to handle. For a sun worshipper like me—one who fervently believed that she was meant to spend her days in places where the sky hung blue and it was always eighty degrees—Phil’s proposal had registered as a minor form of hell. Like an opportunity to lather up in an unheated shower using a Brillo pad, it was hard to imagine emerging from the experience of spreading mulch that packed itself tightly under your fingernails and set splinters into your palms and remember it as pleasurable.

Not surprisingly, my disingenuous “So honey, what’s up?” was not well-received. Phil sat silent: no longer wide-eyed, the earnest expression I’d seen on his face earlier had shifted. Now he looked crestfallen. The irony was that the feeling of not wanting to disappoint him was the same one I had hoped to avoid. Somehow, I’d thought that if I put him off with a “rational” excuse about needing to write, all would be well.

I looked at him sheepishly, wondering how I had ever thought being less than straightforward was a good way to respond. In fifteen years of marriage, we’d certainly disagreed with one another plenty of times. The psychologist in me was ready to dig for answers: Why had disappointing him been such an issue for me? I wondered. And what was with Phil? He’s always known that I’m not a fan of the cold. Why had he pressed me to join him? The latter, I knew, was a lame excuse. It was obvious why: he loved me and wanted to spend time together. Who could fault him for that? The former question, the one about my responsibility for the situation, was another matter entirely.

Nevertheless—in an uncharacteristic move—I dismissed my own unanswered issues and went straight for the “repair.” Can today be mulch Monday? I asked Phil with a bright look. Or have you given up on me? Across the table, I saw a tentative smile appear, replacing the way he’d been gnawing on his lower lip. Taking his reaction as a positive sign, I prattled on about how the weather report said that the rain might hold off and the temperature might actually hit forty degrees. By the time I’d finished my rah-rah speech, my husband was grinning like a boy who’d been told he’d won a lifetime supply of Double-Bubble. An hour later, we were outside together. One hour turned into three, and for the next two days it was “game on.” It was as cold as sweet bejeezus, but somehow I couldn’t seem to feel it. The pleasure in watching Phil’s face overpowered any shivering I’d been doing.

Late last evening, after downing some Advil with a long swig of seltzer, it was my turn to respond like a kid: That was fun! I declared with emphasis. I’m probably the best mulch-spreader this side of the Mississippi, I added. And it had been a good time: working in tandem; sharing easy conversation; discovering that I could actually stay warm with a little physical exertion. Our little piece of paradise looked as if we’d unfurled a welcome mat straight to the water’s edge. There was pride to be felt in that. And the best part? We’d done it as partners.

As a former therapist, I’m usually all-in for digging for interpretations about what motivates me; about why I behave the way I do. Actually this was hard to avoid this time around. The story line was really plain to follow. Even for a woman who would rather write than mulch.

I hadn’t needed to say “no, not now,” when my pal had only been trying to tell me he missed me. And it appeared obvious why, after almost ditching him, I’d felt guilty. It was so simple after all: I felt sad at having disappointed him.

As I watched him standing near the edge of the bluff, throwing his head back to take in the night sky in the cold air, it was easy to see that I’d married a man who found adventure in the simple. Who took pleasure in asking his wife: Are you ready for some fun? And this time, I was.

Best,