My Marriage: Where Compliments are Few and Cuddles are Fewer

You don’t hold my hand when we walk down the street or call me Sweetie. You don’t use terms of endearment or shorten my name as a sign of familiarity. You don’t sit next to me in the booth at a restaurant or set the table with candles.

You don’t declare your love for me on social media or make posts about how proud you are of me.

I’ll never know if you think I’m pretty or beautiful. Your compliments are few and cuddles are fewer.

Marriage is like living on a suspension bridge in a hurricane. When designed and built correctly, it can withstand extreme, dynamic forces while spanning rocky waters below and oscillating in high winds. But, all bridges have a risk of failure under extreme stress, and suspension bridges must be built with the right reinforcements in place, or they will not continue being sturdy under high winds. Did we build our bridge correctly? Can we withstand the tension and the shifting weight of this relationship? Neither of us is an engineer.

I have experienced every emotion with you and for you. I have loved you so much I can’t breathe. I have been furious with you. I’ve yelled and screamed at you. I’ve avoided eye contact with you for days at a time. I’ve watched you sleep and admired your profile on long car rides, wondering how a mousy woman like me ended up with someone as beautiful as you.

You are a protective barrier; your hard exterior shields my soft one. You are my best friend. We have shared a life for half of our own. All of my adult memories include you. I’ve considered divorcing you over improperly placed bowls in the dishwasher.

Many partners plan elaborate proposals with dinners and flowers and little boxes, carefully opened and hopefully presented from one knee. You never did that. After I said yes, you left to play hockey. I put the ring on myself. I can't remember if we exchanged a kiss in celebration of the pledge of commitment.

I should feel wistful and wish for a more romantic pairing. I should be sad that you don’t express your love in the ways that we have been taught to expect.

Yet, I’m not. I'm neither wistful nor sad. That's not how I want to be loved.

I want you to love me for my independence, to respect me as your partner, admire my drive and value my opinions. I want you to to be challenged by the thoughts I share and show up for me because I show up for you. And, I know-you do.

I don’t need to hold your hand when we walk and I'll always run ahead of you on a hiking trail, even in heavy winter boots, to beat you to the top. I cringe at couples who sit next to one another at a booth. It’s easier for me to cajole you than cuddle you. I'd probably crawl under my bed if you wrote anything remotely mushy about me on your social media. You buy me gifts and it embarrasses me. I love my engagement ring but I’m sensible and still frustrated that you spent the money on it, instead of paying toward your school loans. If you’d presented it to me on one knee, I would have told you to get up.

You bought me tickets to Alanis Morissette for my birthday because I told you to. Last Sunday, you drove me two hours to the concert venue and looked straight ahead when the traffic slowed and I turned up the volume on the stereo while we idled in traffic. You ordered me white wine served in a plastic cup. You held it for me while I used the porta- potty. You waited in line to buy me and our girls t-shirts, but I thought one of our daughters would prefer a winter cap. You held my cup when I peed, again, and then waited in line, again, when I realized our daughter would be upset if she got a hat and didn't get a t-shirt. You sat in stoicism while I shouted, hooted, swayed my hips and screamed in excitement. You held the shirts, the hat, and an overpriced beer for hours. After a few times looking at you, and bumping your knee as a cue to join me in dancing, I realized you were better off having an out- of-body experience until the end of the encore. We argued trying to get back to the car. We argued about which way to turn out of the venue. We argued about whether the car was parked on the right or left side of the lot. You wouldn't admit to being wrong and I demanded an apology. As we waited in a long line of cars, I blasted the music and you turned down the dial. As we drove away, I told you that you drove the wrong way. You told me I gave you bad directions.

I have a hard time sleeping and I told you I was afraid I'd be awake the whole night. Moments into the drive home, I immediately passed out, curled up in a ball on the passenger seat, holding the t-shirts and wearing the winter cap. I woke up at one point because I was cold and I half opened an eye to watch you drive- window wide open, your body rigid, tilted toward the steering wheel in concentration. I fell back asleep until we pulled into the driveway in the middle of the night. I stumbled into the house and tucked myself into bed. We didn't speak. I knew you were exhausted but you made sure I fell asleep before you did.

Thank you for building a bridge with me when I can barely hang a photo straight on the wall and the last thing I built was a tool box in eighth grade. Thank you for oscillating in the gale force winds when I am the eye of the storm.

You are not Prince Charming and I am not Princess Aurora. This is not a Cinderella story. We are not characters in a Hallmark movie. We are just us. You and me. I don't need love letters or flowers. I need you.

You are what I want.