Happy Wife?

A few nights ago, I was on Facebook and saw a quiz that was called “How High Maintenance Are You?”  The questions were, among other things, about how many pairs of shoes and purses you own, how often you get massages and manicures, and if you use self-tanner.  I have one purse and about four pairs of shoes—I’d much rather spend money on books.  I’ve had one massage in my lifetime.  I enjoy painting my own nails.  And I’m so pale that if I used even the lightest shade of self-tanner, I would look as though I’d been dipped in a vat of brownish orange paint.  So I proudly announced to Monty that I was very low maintenance.  Monty asked how I had come to that conclusion, and I told him about the quiz.  He laughed and said, “Um. . . there’s more than one way to be high maintenance.”

Later that night, I thought about what Monty had said.  And as much as I hated to admit it, I realized that Monty was right—I am high maintenance.  Monty is an engineer.  He solves problems, troubleshoots issues, and fixes things that are broken.  Over the years, I have required a massive amount of troubleshooting and problem solving.  And Monty has had to devote quite a bit of time to maintaining me.

So yes, I am high maintenance.  For years, I was the cliché of the tortured writer who couldn’t overcome my demons, so I turned to drugs and alcohol to cope with physical pain and the emotional pain of depression.  And try though he might, Monty couldn’t fix me.  He supported me and loved me, but I was the one broken thing that he couldn’t repair.  I know there must have been many, many times when he wished for a reset button in my brain—a way to reboot my thinking.

The closet thing I’ve found to a reset button is the journey of recovery.  I’ve made progress, and today, I am leaps and bounds from the person I was five years ago.  I’ve made amends to Monty, but neither of us have forgotten what those years of addiction were like.  Back then, I watched Monty leave for work, his shoulders down, feeling defeated and sad because of me.  I saw him come home every night, unsure what condition I would be in.  And still, I couldn’t or wouldn’t stop.  Addiction is, at its core, an extremely selfish disease.  Your focus narrows and narrows until you’re so myopic that all you can see is yourself and your own burning desire for more of the substance that’s killing you and hurting the people who love you.

Recovery is not just about getting sober.  It’s about reclaiming what you’ve lost and rebuilding relationships with the people you hurt along the way.  My heart breaks when I think about what Monty had to go through back then.  I feel like I owe it to him now to be the wife I always should have been.  Marriage should be a reciprocal relationship, and for many years, I wasn’t doing my part.  Now, I ask God every single day what I can do for Monty to help bear his burdens and make his life happier.  Unlike Monty, my default setting is not happiness.  I’m sure you’ve heard these sayings:  “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.”  And “happy wife, happy life.”  I’ve realized how true these sayings are.  My moods so often determine the kind of day Monty and I have.  If I’m unhappy, he is, too.  So I work very hard to be happy, regardless of my circumstances.  And I’ve discovered that happiness can become a habit.

In my studies of Proverbs, I’ve read this verse many times: “Better to live on a corner of the roof than share a house with a quarrelsome wife.” (Proverbs 21:9) For some reason, the last time I read it, it hit me like a ton of bricks.  I’m sure there were countless times when Monty would have chosen to set up camp on the roof rather than live with me.  But he stayed.  He held on for the happy days.  And I’m so grateful he did—because our life now is filled with laughter.  We laugh at our cats’ antics.  We watch comedies and find the same parts funny, again and again.  We tell each other the most ridiculous jokes.  And we laugh at our shared memories of happiness.

Twenty-two years ago tomorrow, Monty asked me to marry him.  He took me on a sleigh ride in the mountains to a cabin where we had a candlelight dinner.  After dinner, he got down on one knee and proposed.  While he was making a beautiful speech to me, he was digging in his pocket for my engagement ring.  Instead, a pile of gum wrappers fell out.  A handful of change fell out.  It seemed like he had to dig through his pocket for five minutes before he found my ring.  And we laughed.  I said yes—and we laughed some more.  We still laugh when we think of how serious and beautiful that moment was supposed to be, and how instead, Monty kept pulling stuff out of his pocket like a magician pulling scarves out of his sleeve.  During the sleigh ride back, we huddled together under the blankets and laughed.  I knew then that my life with Monty would be a happy one.

It hasn’t been an easy one—sometimes it’s been very hard on Monty, especially.  But there’s always been laughter.  And now, finally, I’m learning how to be happy.  Happy wife, happy life?  Oh, I pray for that to be true.  Because I want that for Monty.  He deserves it.  Maybe someday I’ll even figure out a way to be low maintenance.  Then again, I’d hate for Monty to get bored. . .