Newly Married and Sheltering-in-Place

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” my new husband has told me about a thousand times.

That’s nice, I think, but now we’re sheltering-in-place. 

Bob and I married in April last year and just celebrated our first wedding anniversary.  One of our goals was to spend the rest of our lives in a relationship that forever stayed in a “honeymoon stage.”

We both have grown children, and this marriage promised to be a time just for us, not for raising children.  Just our time.  Bob retired before we got married, and this January, I changed my job from full-time to part-time so we could spend more time together.  (Being a college professor is so much fun that I just couldn’t retire completely.)

What a nice idea, but whoever thought that we would have to spend 24/7 with each other.  This shelter-in-place requirement is the ultimate test of our new marriage.

Back in the old days when I was single, I would teach all day and then come home to my quiet little library and finish work at home.  My desk looks out onto my back yard where the roses bloom, the hummingbirds flit in and out of the trees, and the Adirondack chairs beckon to me.  A wall of bookcases stands within arm’s reach to help me plan my courses, research literature and lecture topics, and grade my college student papers. 

Now, my once lively courses, glowing with the energy and over-ripeness of young adults, have been forced online.  Gone are the daily face-to-face smiles and overwhelming questions.  In exchange are hours of planning, documenting, emailing, and recording course instructions—all over the internet.  Even though I talk to my students in videos and see their eager faces via Zoom office hours, the days are quieter, less exciting, and all at home.

Bob wasn’t kidding when he said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.  When my classes got transitioned to online, I could see the joy in his face as he realized I’d be home with him every day, every hour, every minute, and every second.  Apparently, he decided that, since I had to stay home, he’d get to spend all that new time with me. 

If I sat at my desk to record a video, he stared from the perch of his leather chair just outside my library.  He didn’t seem to care if I was grading essays, talking to students or colleagues via Zoom, or answering emails; he sat and ogled at me with a smile on his face. 

First, I closed the double doors between the library and the family room so I couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see me.  That worked fine except my sensitive fourth dimension could still feel his energy pulsating my way like a friendly and happy alien with blinking eyes and beating heart. 

Then, he’d turn on the television, which is right outside the double doors. 

The hardest part of being a college English professor is grading essays.  Professors don’t just write a grade on the essay; if we want our students to improve their critical thinking and writing skills, we have to offer them detailed advice about how to improve their work.  If I had known about the stress of this part of my job, I doubt if I would have chosen it.  (Some things, like raising children, should never be explained ahead of time, or no one would do them.)

So critical thinking and writing advice takes time and thought, and, when a television is blasting just outside the door of my workspace, I can’t think. 

Earlier this year, we’d already bought a new television for the spare bedroom so that Bob could go upstairs to watch tv if I was working at home.  Why wasn’t he doing that, I wondered?

What I have learned in the last thirty days of this sheltering-in-place episode is that wives have to tell husbands exactly what they want them to do and when they want them to do it.  And just because they told them yesterday does not mean that they won’t have to tell them the same thing today.  

I stick my head out of the double doors.  “Honey, would you mind watching tv upstairs.  I’m grading essays and I can’t think,” I say.

“I’d rather watch tv down here so I can be with you,” he replies.  Fortunately, even though he’s pretty intuitive, he can’t read my mind that is swirling with fantastic visions about how I’d like to see him in outer space light years away, floating like a fat-suited astronaut in between the stars.  Up, up, and away.

“Remember, we bought that other tv so you could go up there and so I could work without being disturbed,” I say sweetly, with a syrupy smile on my face.  “I’d really appreciate it, Sweetie.”

“O.K.” he says with a glum look on his face which makes me feel just terrible.  Why does he have to be so sweet?  Just once, I wish he’d stand in front of me and say, “I need some time alone right now.”

The other irritating thing about my husband, especially now that I am prevented from socially distancing from him, is that he’s dervishly handsome.  You know, the kind of guy that’s tall, lanky, long arms and legs, with a bad-boy grin.  When we used to go to church on Sundays, he’d sit down, lean back, and cup his elbows over the back of the pew like he was watching a basketball game at a stadium.  Who does that in church?  If I turned to look at him when he did this, he’d lean over and kiss me. 

Bob is a former basketball player and he’s so knowledgeable about sports that he makes the calls even before sportscasters when he watches games on tv.  Which brings me to another recent wrinkle in the fabric of our honeymoon marriage.  No sports on tv right now.  Steph Curry and all his friends are sheltering-at-home too. 

If this Corona Virus Pandemic hadn’t happened, Bob would have flown to Las Vegas in March for four days of betting on March Madness, and I would have had four days of girl time and solitude.  If Steph Curry and LeBron James weren’t evicted from the basketball courts, Bob would be watching the Cleveland Cavaliers and their NBA colleagues two or three nights a week, and I would have time to read a book while the crowds cheered and yelped in the background.  

The other sports that I miss is Sunday afternoon golf tournaments.  Not that I watched them, but Bob loved to watch the last day of these star-studded tournaments with Phil Mickelson, Rory Mcilroy, and Tiger Woods.  What a great time for me to go out browsing the furniture consignment store or go wine-tasing with my girlfriends.  Those sweet Sundays once upon a time. 

This man just won’t leave me alone.  Before this whole tragedy happened to our marriage, I used to fall asleep at night and dream about my new husband, just like I did before we were married.  In my dreams, we’d be walking on the beach holding hands, drinking a glass of wine at the counter of a winery, leaning over the balcony of our stateroom on a cruise on the Danube, sharing calamari at the bar of a golf course, or laughing on the Adirondack chairs in the back yard. 

Now when I sleep, I dream of being alone. 

I’ve been working on developing more cultural humility so that I can become a better professor to my students.  Developing cultural humility entails putting yourself in the shoes of the other person so that you can empathize with their situation and feelings. 

I’ve been wondering how I could use cultural humility to deal with this new development in my marriage.  This means I would have to think like I’m wearing a salt and pepper mustache that curves over a sensual mouth and a polo shirt striped across broad shoulders.  How would I think if I was Bob?

Someone once told me that men think through their stomachs, so I guess, if it was morning, I’d want to eat my banana and bowl of Cheerios.  If later in the day, I’d want a cup of cashews while I was watching the news or a hamburger for lunch.  If it was 7 o’clock at night, I’d likely be thinking about having that sniffer of brandy. 

Wait, this isn’t helping me.  I don’t think that embodying Bob’s stomach will help me understand him any better. 

All I can think about is my own perspective during this hopefully once-in-a-lifetime pandemic.  I need alone time.  I want space.  I yearn for quiet moments where no one asks me what I’m doing, or when I’m going to be done, or what I just put in the washer, or what I think about this or that polo shirt. 

This is going to require an intervention.  I need to get all the individuals affected by this crisis and sit them down together to resolve the predicament of t-o-o m-u-c-h Bob.  Everyone is going to have to express how they feel and how they think we can solve our problem. 

So tomorrow I’m going to get everyone in the same room—that would be, I guess, Bob and me—and have a big family meeting.  I’m going to tell Bob that I don’t want to be the bad guy anymore.  I don’t want to have to ask him to turn off the tv and go up to the spare room to watch his annoying news shows.  He’s going to have to take more responsibility from now on, so I know he’s thinking about me and leaving me alone at the same time.

What a wonderful solution.  After our little family meeting, we’ll be able to resume our honeymoon marriage, and I’ll be able to fall asleep and dream about Bob again. 

Sometimes, cultural humility not just about perspective, but also about honest communication.