If you’re a guy and you’ve been married for five+ years, let’s face it, you’ve screwed up. A lot. Every day you inadvertently do something your wife finds annoying, insulting, insensitive, or just plain stupid. Perhaps this generic apology letter may help get you out of your latest jam. Probably not. But what have you got to lose?
[Author’s note: As a public service to my married male readers, I have crafted a generic apology letter for husbands who are looking for just the right, sensitive words to explain to their wives that they’re sincerely sorry for all their husbandly shortcomings. Guys, feel free to edit this to your specific situation to ensure your wife forgives you and lets you stop sleeping on the couch over your latest screwup. Of course, none of these examples below applies to my wife and me. – Tim Jones]
I feel I am past due in extending to you a sincere apology for the many ways I have failed you over the years. As I reflect upon our nearly [fill in # of years: ____] years of marriage, I realize there have been countless occasions in which I have selfishly placed my own wants, needs, and basic understanding of how reality works ahead of your spousal expectations.
For example, I want to offer my profoundest apologies for my reckless and borderline criminal behavior regarding the thermostat. I don’t know what possessed me to believe that 72°F was a temperature suitable for human habitation. I clearly forgot that the “proper” indoor climate for a suburban home is a balmy 84°F – somewhere between a tropical rainforest and a commercial greenhouse.
My mistake was assuming that if you saw sweat forming on my forehead while I was sitting motionless on the couch, you might conclude, as I did, that the house might be slightly too warm. From now on, I will respect your wish to live inside a high-functioning pizza oven. That was insensitive of me. I’m sorry.
I also owe you a massive apology for my inexcusable occasional lapse in attentiveness when you tell me stories about your latest workplace drama. You were roughly forty-five minutes into a truly riveting, frame-by-frame analysis of why Brenda in Accounting is a “passive-aggressive viper” for the way she CC’d your manager on that email about the breakroom microwave.
I realize now that my eyes may have glazed over slightly. It was selfish of me to let the sudden-death overtime of an NFL Seahawks playoff game distract me from the psychological nuances of Brenda’s cubicle warfare. A caring husband would have known that the playoff hopes of my favorite team pale in comparison to the specific tone of voice Brenda used when she asked if you’d “had a chance to look at those spreadsheets yet.” I should have known better. Can you forgive me?
I would also like to apologize for not completing every home-improvement project you discover online. For example, last year you sent me a Pinterest link which gave you the idea of remodeling our unfinished, damp basement into a five-star Mediterranean day spa with heated marble floors and a eucalyptus steam room. Meanwhile, I was still finishing the artisanal, hand-stacked stone fire pit you wanted after seeing a thirty-second Instagram video featuring a smiling couple roasting marshmallows while wearing adorable matching sweaters that read “You Complete Me.”
Ah, date night. And you’ve been patiently waiting for your wife to decide which outfit to wear. Suggestion: Avoid the temptation to say, “Honey, we’re just going to Denny’s, not the Metropolitan Opera Gala. Pick something, for God’s sake.” Trust me on this.
I recognize now that my failure was in believing that projects should be completed sequentially rather than simultaneously. A truly dedicated husband would have remodeled the basement, built the fire pit, installed a pergola, landscaped the backyard, and handcrafted a rustic farmhouse dining table all while making your favorite dinner. I see now that my inability to manipulate the space-time continuum to complete multiple major construction projects simultaneously is a glaring character flaw. I apologize for my lack of competence when it comes to time travel.
I would also like to apologize for the “tone” I used last Tuesday. You were merely fulfilling your civic duty by telling me, for the twentieth time on a four-mile stretch of road, that I should probably be in the left lane, and that the car three blocks ahead of us looked like it was about to brake suddenly. When I raised my voice (by which I mean, spoke at a volume audible to someone without sonar), I was being defensive. I should have simply thanked you for providing the turn-by-turn commentary that my GPS – and my 45 years of driving experience – clearly couldn’t provide.
I would like to apologize for my ongoing inability to read minds. This has been a recurring issue. Many times I have asked, “Is everything okay?” To which you’ve replied, “I’m fine.” Unfortunately, I have interpreted this response as meaning you were, well, fine. This was an amateur mistake. I realize now that “I’m fine” actually translates to: “I am currently compiling a mental list of every mistake you’ve made since 2012, and the fact that you can’t sense my boiling rage proves you don’t love me.” I promise to enroll in a Basics of Mind Reading course at the community college this fall so I can better interpret your silence.
I would also like to apologize for anniversary-related misunderstandings. Last year as our anniversary approached, you informed me, “Don’t get me anything. I have everything I need.” I foolishly assumed these words carried their standard dictionary meanings. I have since learned that “don’t get me anything” is not an instruction. It is a test. And like most husbands, I failed spectacularly. Mea culpa.
Most of all, I would like to apologize for the countless ways I have failed to live up to the very reasonable standard of a handsome, competent, caring, financially successful husband you’ve come to expect, based on every romantic movie you’ve ever watched. The man who always says the right thing, remembers every date, and compliments your latest new outfit, without ever asking how much it cost.
Few things cause marital friction like driving. Sure, you know the way to your destination. And you even remembered to leave 20 minutes early to allow for traffic. But your wife will find SOMETHING to criticize about your driving. You’re not going to win. Just apologize.
I confess that I am not that man. I am merely the guy who occasionally forgets why he walked into the garage. I love you, dear wife, deeply. You are smart, funny, beautiful, [fill in four or five more bromides of appreciation] and a better life partner than I probably deserve. I sincerely hope you can forgive my many failures.
I suspect that deep down you secretly dream about how you’d be happier leaving me for George Clooney, your favorite Hall Pass. I totally understand. I have lost count how many times you have sighed when you watch him on TV, “He just gets more handsome with age,” unlike your current husband who, for some reason, just gets more nasal and ear hair with age.
Just a word of caution, however, before you ride off in the sunset with your dreamboat lover: I hear George insists on keeping his house at a crisp 70°F.
With all my love and deepest regrets,
Your Loving Husband
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Meet Hafiz (L) and Hammad (R), two amazing young men who I now call family. I spent an incredible week with them in Pakistan. Here we are dining with Lahore, Pakistan’s world-famous 350-year-old Badshahi Mosque in the background.
My family is a bit unusual, and not just because my wife says she’s married to a humor writer with the maturity of a 13-year-old (on a good day, anyway). No, what I mean by “unusual” is that I am the only native-born American in my nuclear family. My wife is from Canada. And we adopted both of our now-adult daughters from China when they were infants.
But many people may not know that in the past few years, my family became even more international. That’s because I have also two nephews from Pakistan. Okay, technically, they are not blood-related to me. But these two fine young men are absolutely part of my forever family. Their names are Hafiz (age 32) and Hammad (28).
Let me back up and explain. Back in 2020, I discovered Hafiz while doing an internet search for a video editor for my YouTube channel, View from the Bleachers. I needed help editing, adding background images, inserting photos, captions, and sound effects. I stumbled onto the profile of a young man from Lahore, Pakistan named Hafiz Ramzan. I had never heard of Lahore. A quick Google search informed me that Hafiz lived literally on the opposite side of the world – 12 time zones away.
After a few months collaborating on my YouTube channel, Hafiz had the idea for us to co-host a series of educational videos called Across the World. The premise was that I would interview Hafiz about life in Pakistan, and he’d interview me about life in the USA. In the process of this collaboration, Hafiz introduced me to his close friend, Hammad Hassan, who took over the role of conducting these Across the World video interviews with me.
Over several months, I learned more and more about these two intriguing young men and their fascinating culture. They are both devout Muslims. Both were university educated. Hafiz was more gregarious and entrepreneurial. Hammad was more introverted and soft-spoken.
As they became more comfortable with this American senior citizen whose life story had almost nothing in common with theirs, Hafiz and Hammad started opening up more with me. I learned that Hafiz had lost both his parents by the age of five and lived in an orphanage from age five through fourteen. I learned that both Hammad’s parents were university educated.
I explained to H and H that in America, when we pose for photos, we put our arms around each other and smile. I said, “This is an American pose.” After a couple days, when someone took our photo, Hafiz would remind Hammad, “Let’s do an American pose.”
Hafiz opened up about some of the worries and frustrations of being the parent of two very young, high-spirited toddlers. He is a deeply loving father. Hammad expressed his interest in getting married and even asked me for marriage advice. I told him to forget about the young woman in Glasgow, Scotland. Long story.
Eventually, Hafiz brought up the idea of meeting in person. It did not take long before I learned it would be almost impossible for a young, Muslim Pakistani male to get a travel visa to the United States. Too many red flags. The US Government would be suspicious of their intentions. The Pakistani government would fear they may leave and never return. I eventually realized that the only way we’d ever meet was for me to travel to Pakistan.
So, in late November 2023, I flew to Lahore, Pakistan to meet them. Lahore is a city of over 12 million people – more people than the combined population of New York and Los Angeles. After a 30-hour journey with a layover in Istanbul, finally at 5:05am in the morning, two days after I began my trip, I arrived at the Lahore International Airport. Exhausted and groggy, I worked my way to the arrivals gate. Once there, I could not believe my eyes. I stared out at a sea of unfamiliar faces – easily two thousand people – all with black hair, dark complexions, all the men with beards (as is the custom of Muslim men in Pakistan). I worried, “How in the world will I ever find my friends?”
Like a lost puppy, I searched in vain for several minutes for a familiar face. Then, from the crowd, I heard a distant voice shout, “Teem! (That’s how Hafiz pronounced my name.) Teem! Over here!” It was Hafiz, and right next to him, Hammad. I rushed over to meet my friends for the first time since I had met Hafiz via the Internet more than three years prior.
Even though my actual birthday was not for another month, Hafiz (center) and Hammad threw a surprise birthday party for me in my hotel room, complete with a birthday cake, balloons, and a tennis racquet as a gift. Notice how they are doing a real American pose, with the hugs and smiles.
In Pakistan, adult men do not hug other men unless they are family. But the moment I saw them, I gave them both what I later explained to them was an American-style hug. I suspect my bear hug startled them a bit. The day we had been waiting for, for three years, had finally arrived. Then in the airport parking lot, the Uber driver Hafiz had reserved could not get his car to start. Welcome to Pakistan.
If you would like to learn about the week I spent in Pakistan, you can watch a video of a talk I gave about my experience. On my first evening there, Hafiz invited me to dinner at his home – something that is virtually never done unless you are family or a longtime close friend. I even met his wife, albeit covered from head to toe in a burka, with only her eyes peering out through the small slit.
A couple days later, I was invited to Hammad’s uncle’s house. It was there I met his father, who had traveled three hours just to meet me. His father did not speak English. I didn’t speak Urdu. And Pakistani men don’t smile a lot around people they don’t know. And for sure they don’t hug other men (other than family). So, imagine my surprise when at the end of our two-hour visit, as I was saying goodbye in my fractured Urdu, I extended my hand to shake hands with Hammad’s father. Instead, he greeted me with a hug. I told Hammad this and he said, “my father is telling you, with that hug, that you are family.”
I am not a religious person. Hammad and Hafiz pray to Allah five times a day. I was over twice their age. But these two young men treated me with abundant kindness and respect the entire time. Whenever we walked through a door, they insisted on holding the door and letting me go first. Respect for your elders is important in Pakistan.
At the end of my brief trip, I realized that Hafiz and Hammad – like most people in Pakistan – seek the same things in life that any of us desire: happiness, safety and security for their family, and a life of opportunity for their children.
L to R: Hammad, me, Hafiz. This is the final photo we took, as I was leaving them at the Lahore, PK Airport to head home. It was a very emotional moment for me to say goodbye, not knowing when I might ever see them again.
Over the past five years, we have become very close. They call me Uncle Tim (which I love, I must say). I refer to them as my nephews. We do What’s App video calls at least twice a month now.
Our cultures and our everyday lives could not be more different. The roles of men and women in Pakistani culture are very different from America. Most marriages are arranged by the parents. The sounds, smells, and images of their world have few parallels to mine. And yet, the more time I spend talking with my nephews, the more convinced I am that our similarities far outweigh our differences. And the closer our familial bond has become.
One thing I know for a certainty. These two young men will forever be a part of my family. I’m still trying to find a way to help them get travel Visas to come visit America someday. For now, they remain across the world, 7,000 miles away. But they will always be right beside me, in my heart. – TEJ
[Postscript: For the past forty years, whenever I travel internationally, I take my trusty softball-sized teddy bear called Grumpy along for the ride. Pakistan was no exception. I have even written about my extensive Travels with Grumpy. It turned out that both Hammad and Hafiz LOVED playing with Grumpy. He became a source of endless entertainment for them.
When I returned home, I noticed I still had two of Grumpy’s best friends (Yellow Grumpy and Green Grumpy), which I had bought the same time I purchased my main (brown) Grumpy, back in 1981. They had sat quietly by my desk, next to my main Grumpy for over 40 years.
So, I decided, hey, why not send one Grumpy to each of them? Both Grumpies arrived exactly one month later, on the very same day. Hammad and Hafiz both sent me photos of themselves (above) holding their own Grumpies. Hammad is now in the UK, where he recently completed a master’s program in business and just got engaged. And he made sure to bring his Grumpy on his UK adventure for companionship. – TEJ]
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Notice how the wife meticulously measures just the right amount of detergent. Meanwhile, the husband pours half a bottle of bleach directly onto the laundry, thereby bypassing the bleach drawer. That’s just smart efficiency, if you ask any husband.
If you’ve been married for more than six weeks, sooner or later you’ll face one of the most contentious challenges a couple must confront: deciding on the proper way to do laundry. While both men and women technically possess the physical capability to perform this task, their approaches are as different as fine chardonnay and gas station nachos. As a result, these differences can turn into heated battles.
To help you navigate these tumultuous waters, I have compiled a step-by-step comparison of how women and men approach the sacred art of laundering clothes. Check your gender to be sure you know which approach you should follow.
Step 1: Sorting the Laundry
Women’s Approach:
Once a week, gather all the dirty clothes from the various hampers in the house, including the one in the bathroom, the one in the bedroom, and the mystery pile your husband swears he “was totally going to get to.”
Separate whites from colors, ensuring that no rogue red socks infiltrate the pristine whites and turn them an angry pink.
Further separate delicates, towels, jeans, and workout clothes into their own separate piles because apparently, different fabrics have different temperature and washing requirements.
Check all pockets for money, gum, rogue tissues, and – if you have young kids – LEGOs.
Stare in horror at what your husband has wadded up into a jumbled mass the size of a small moose and thrown into the hamper. Debate whether it can be salvaged or should just be set on fire, to prevent a potentially dangerous toxic waste dump from engulfing your house.
Men’s Approach:
Once every four months, grab everything from the hamper and the floor (same thing, really) and stuff it all into the washing machine until it is so full you can barely close the door. Remember, if it’s not overflowing, there’s room for more.
Consider checking pockets but then get distracted by a hilarious Bud Lite commercial on TV and forget.
Step 2: Selecting the Wash Settings
Women’s Approach:
Carefully consult the care labels on each garment.
Select the appropriate water temperature and cycle: cold for delicates, warm for colors, hot for whites, and, for unknown fabrics, Google it just to be safe.
Add just the right amount of detergent, fabric softener, and maybe even a color-safe bleach booster.
Adjust the settings accordingly so nothing shrinks, bleeds, or turns into something a miniature poodle could comfortably squeeze into.
Men’s Approach:
Turn the dial to whatever setting the machine is already on. It was fine last time, right?
Dump in a generous amount of detergent – more soap means cleaner clothes, obviously.If the water starts foaming like your two-year-old’s bubble bath, you probably have the right amount.
Hit the start button.
Check back two days later when you suddenly remember you never took the clothes out of the washing machine.
Step 3: Transferring Clothes to the Dryer
Women’s Approach:
Carefully pull out each item, one by one, and inspect for stains. If a stain remains, rewash immediately by hand to prevent the stain from becoming permanent.
Separate delicate items that should never see the inside of a dryer and lay them out flat or hang them to dry.
Set the dryer to the appropriate heat level: low for delicates, medium for everyday wear, and high for towels and sheets.
Add a dryer sheet because fresh-smelling clothes are one of the little joys of living in a civil society.
Men’s Approach:
Shovel the entire load into the dryer like you’re shoveling coal into the firebox of an 1830s steam engine train bound for the Dakota Territories.
Forget about delicates. Men don’t wear delicates, so you can ignore this issue.
Turn the heat to “High” because heat equals dry, and dry equals done.
Close the door and return to watching the game.
If you discover that your wife’s sweat pants have drastically shrunk to something a toddler could wear, secretly throw it in the trash and tell her you never saw it. “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it, honey?”
Step 4: Folding and Putting Away
When the laundry is done, notice how the wife neatly folds every item and puts similar items together, like these towels. The husband, on the other hand, uses the time-tested “entropy” system, in which all the clothes are shoved into a giant pile – to be sorted out later. Much later.
Women’s Approach:
Remove clothes immediately to prevent wrinkles.
Fold each item neatly, ensuring shirts are stacked, socks are paired, and towels are folded to fit the closet in their proper spot.
Hang up dress shirts, blouses, and anything that even hints at needing a hanger.
Put everything away in its designated spot, where it belongs. Your work is done.
Men’s Approach:
Remember the clothes you put in the dryer last week and put the game on pause.
Grab the entire pile and dump it onto the nearest available flat surface, the kitchen floor.
Start to fold a couple shirts, then remember how boring this is. Decide to shove the entire mass into the floor of the closet. There! Job finished!
Final Step: Review Your Work
Women’s Approach:
Take note of what went wrong and adjust for next time.
Reflect on how grateful your husband will be when he sees all his clothes so neatly folded and stored in their proper repositories. Yes, he’s lucky to have you as his wife.
Try not to get triggered by the fact that in reality your husband is oblivious to all your hard work and asks if you could get him another beer.
Men’s Approach:
Act slightly indignant when your wife screams that her favorite cashmere sweater has shrunk four sizes.
Calmly de-escalate the situation by saying, “Is it possible you’ve put on a little weight recently?”
Say nothing as your wife gives you a daggers glare that could frighten a terrorist.
Hide your smile as your wife angrily announces you’re permanently banned from doing laundry ever again. Congratulations. Mission accomplished.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is Pam. For years Pam has been carrying a grudge against her sister Meg because Meg got the entire $200K of their father’s inheritance. All Pam got was Barkley the dog. Barkley pees on the carpet every day and destroyed her sofa. Okay, Pam, I’d be angry, too.
I’ve rarely been one to hold a grudge. It takes a lot to get me triggered, and even then, I usually move past whatever momentary feelings of irritation I’m experiencing within minutes or, worst case, a couple of hours – unless it’s ANYTHING that my annoying neighbor Bert Higgins says or does, in which case, I will never let it go. What can I say, I just don’t like the guy.
Other than with my neighbor Bert, I never saw the point to letting personal resentments fester. Research shows that holding onto anger and bitterness is bad for your emotional and physical well-being – much like the feeling of rage that consumes many readers after having been subjected to my latest humor article: “Damn it, Jones! That’s ten minutes of my life I’ll NEVER get back!” is the usual complaint I receive.
Nelson Mandela once wrote, “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.” On a related note, for months I resented my first college girlfriend for making out with a friend of mine. Six months later, she still hadn’t died. So yeah, turns out Nelson was right.
I come from a hearty stock of grudge holders. One of my brothers who will not be named (okay, you twisted my arm – his name is Ted) would not speak to me for over a year because sixmonths after he had asked me for a three-month loan, I had the temerity to ask him to pay me back the $500 I had lent him. My egregious offense was asking to be paid back at all. Thankfully, my brother explained his understandable outrage at my insensitive treatment: “Family members should never expect to be paid back.” That was over forty years ago. He still harbors hard feelings. I’m confident in time, he’ll forgive me and reimburse me. Do you think it’s too late to ask him to include interest? Nah, that probably wouldn’t end well. Forget I even mentioned it.
Everybody holds onto grudges. Even famous people. For example, did you know that John Adams, America’s second president, was a close friend of Thomas Jefferson, our third president – until 1801? That’s the year that Jefferson defeated Adams for the presidency. Adams never forgave Jefferson (his VP when Adams was president) for running against him. They soon became bitter enemies, refusing to settle their differences for more than twenty years. It wasn’t until very late in life that they finally made amends. Personally, I’m not so sure they forgave each other so much as dementia may have set in, and they each thought they’d made a new friend.
Thomas Jefferson (L) and John Adams famously fell out of favor with each other and became bitter enemies. Jefferson was envious of Adams’ great wealth. Adams resented Jefferson for his lush, full head of hair and his hot mistress Sally Hemings.
Many famous people throughout history refused to let go of longstanding grudges: Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr, Van Gogh and Gauguin, Thomas Edison and Nicola Tesla, Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, Paul McCartney and Yoko Ono, Donald Trump and… well, just about everybody who’s ever worked for him.
The above list includes several extremely intelligent, talented people… and Donald Trump. In each case, they chose to keep the fires of grievance burning for years. At least Hamilton and Burr eventually found a way to abruptly resolve their feud – if you consider pistols at dawn an effective way to end a dispute.
Have you ever noticed how for some people, it’s easier to offer criticism than a compliment? Similarly, some of us would actually choose to stay angry and resentful rather than forgive the other person. Why is this? Here’s my theory: Sincere forgiveness can require a lot of effort. Worse, it just might require us to accept that we played a part in creating this rift. And why should we waste our time on self-reflection about our own shortcomings when it’s far less work to place all the blame on my annoying neighbor, Bert Higgins?
Besides, if we forgive the other person, that lets them off the hook. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Charlie Jamison forget about the fact that he ran over my pet guinea pig Bubbles with his Schwinn bicycle back in 5th grade. He still has never apologized for murdering my best friend.
The more I think about it, the more I realize that holding onto a long-simmering resentment offers several useful benefits. First, you’ll no longer need to worry about getting them a birthday present or sending a Christmas card. You won’t have to invite them over for Thanksgiving. And you can relax as you watch the football game knowing they’ll never interrupt the game with a pesky phone call to vent to you about their disappointing teenage son Norman.
If you expand your network of people towards whom you could harbor resentment, just think of how much spare time it will open up in your weekly schedule. Of course, it works in reverse as well. If there is someone in your life you find slightly unpleasant to be around, you might consider insulting them about their appearance or parenting skills. That way, they’ll start to resent you and, if you’re lucky, refuse to acknowledge your existence. Mission accomplished.
Why do people carry grudges? Well, in this case, it’s because Maria was named the prom queen, while her identical twin sister Evelyn lost out. So unfair. And Maria even had the nerve to wear the same dress as Evelyn. What a bitch.
So, I’ve changed my mind. Instead of letting go of past resentments, I’m going to start to embrace them. You hear that, Coach Steck? Perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you demoted me to second string on our high school football team after I had one bad game back in 1973. Well, I haven’t forgotten, Coach. I’m coming to even the score with you – assuming that at the age of 104 you’re still alive, you son of a b*tch.
And Larry Elmendorf, don’t think I’ve forgotten that in 5th grade you once called me “Thunder Thighs Jones” because you thought I had fat thighs back then. Vengeance will be mine, by which I mean I will post a snarky comment about your recent weight gain on your Facebook page.
Tonight I’m supposed to make dinner, but I’m feeling lazy. I’d rather just have some leftover pizza and watch the game. I think I’ll get out of cooking by pretending to carry a grudge against my wife for nagging me repeatedly that I still haven’t mowed the lawn. Yeah, that should do the trick. And I’ll forgive her the next day, when it’s her turn to cook.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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One of the many unexpected aspects of being married to my lovely wife is the frequent opportunities to demonstrate my patience, by which I mean WAITING… and WAITING… and WAITING. But the reasons I have to wait are not what you think.
A common complaint of many husbands is having to wait for their wives. Waiting as she picks out an outfit; waiting for her to finish putting on makeup; waiting in the store for her to pick out the perfect lamp for the living room. Waiting at the hospital while she takes forever to deliver their baby.
You will never hear me make any such complaints about my wife – although there was that one time when I got a flat tire. It took her forever to jack up the car and put on the spare. I got so bored waiting for her to finish. A guy can only play Solitaire on their phone so many times before it gets repetitive.
The truth is, in most aspects of our wonderful life together, my wife rarely makes me wait. She can be very decisive. What I’m not quite as fond of is the way my dear wife takes FOREVER whenever we are visiting an interesting place, particularly one that has a lot of incredible scenery or fascinating history. Once there, if we see ANYTHING REMOTELY WORTH TAKING A PHOTO OF, well, that’s when the problems begin. Did I mention my wife is an artist? She does oil paintings of landscapes – mountains, flowers, birds, seashores, and interesting architecture. She is very accomplished and well known for her artwork.
Because of her passion for her art, whenever we take a hike to check out, say a pristine lake or some lovely beach or a historic castle or a cathedral or a heron sitting on a log, my wife has an uncontrollable impulse to take several photographs. Let me clarify. When I say, “take several photographs,” I don’t mean three or four photos of the very same thing. That’s what a normal person might do. My wife is not normal. No, she’ll take three or four DOZEN photos of the very same thing. Why does she obsess over getting the perfect shot? She claims it’s so she can make oil paintings from her photos.
Recently we took a stroll along a beach near our home. She loved the way the sunlight reflected off the waves as they lapped along the shore. I’ll admit it was a lovely, tranquil maritime setting. That’s why I took two photos… and my wife took 125. She kept on clicking over and over. Thirty years ago, when people used film to take pictures, my wife knew that each snap of the camera’s shutter cost money to develop. So, she was conservative in her click-count.
Thanks to the age of digital cameras, she can now take a myriad of shots, and they’re all free. Whoever invented the digital camera, that person has seriously threatened our marriage and my sanity. That’s because my wife sees nothing wrong with spending hours photographing every possible nuance of a babbling brook, while I sit around waiting for her to run out of steam. She never does. She’s the Energizer Bunny of taking pictures.
My wife is a gifted artist. She paints landscapes in oil of the natural beauty near where we live. Just one problem. She is forever in search of the PERFECT SHOT!
One time we were on vacation in Rome when we decided to explore the famous Coliseum. Big mistake. My wife stopped every ten feet to take fifteen to twenty photos of the very same building from a slightly different angle, apparently in pursuit of a Pulitzer-Prize-winning photograph. If you’re curious as to which of the 800+ photos she took of this ancient Roman ruin she ultimately used to paint from, the correct answer would be none of them. She decided not to do a painting – probably because she was sure she would have better luck clicking hundreds of photos of the canals of Venice or a row of Vespa scooters in Milan.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my wife. And her landscape paintings are truly amazing. But I have seen glaciers crawl forward in less time than it takes for her to finish taking photos of, say, a crawling glacier. I’ve learned to accept this peculiar quirk about my wife. Whenever I’m forced to wait around while she clicks away in search of the perfect closeup of a tulip, I try to make productive use of my spare time by getting caught up on my latest Stephen King novel… or chopping down tree branches and erecting a lean-to, to take a nap. She’s going to be a while.
Our house is filled with dozens of her original paintings – on just about every wall of every room, I pretty much live in an art gallery. Before long we will run out of wall space for her art. Maybe then she’ll dial back on the need to take hundreds of photos of every waterfall she sees.
Who am I kidding? She’s not going to change. But I have discovered a way to give her a taste of her own medicine. In the evening, when we sit down to watch a movie together, I deliberately take an annoyingly long time to decide on a film. I’ll check out the trailers of ten different movies, until in exasperation she whines, “FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST PICK ONE!”
It drives her crazy. Let’s just say we’re even.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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