Measure of a marriage

I was ordering something on Takealot when I remembered that the half-cup measuring thingy I use for my morning oats had gone missing in action. 

Rather than convening a summit or opening an investigation into its disappearance, I simply navigated to “kitchen utensils” and ordered a set of measuring cups that appeared to meet my oatmeal-related requirements. 

A few days later the package arrived. I opened it, walked into the kitchen where my wife was busy, and announced proudly, “Look what I ordered.” 

I removed the brightly coloured plastic measuring cups from their dusty packaging and tossed them into the drawer with all the other measuring implements that have accumulated over the years. 

I’m not saying that I expected a standing ovation. But I did feel that a small acknowledgement of initiative would not have been entirely inappropriate. 

As I closed the drawer, I was already composing my acceptance speech. “It was nothing,” I would say modestly. “No need to make a fuss. Your measuring cups are my measuring cups. And if we cannot order measuring cups for the kitchen, then who are we?” 

When I turned around, however, I was confronted by something unexpected. My wife appeared to be engaged in an internal struggle of epic proportions. Her body language was a riot of contradictions. She was trying very hard to look grateful while simultaneously looking like someone who had just watched a stranger try to brush her child’s hair. 

The wheels were grinding as they turned. Years of marriage manuals. Decades of relationship advice. Thirty-five years of rabbinical wisdom gathered from classes, sermons, and conversations. All of it was being rapidly reviewed before she responded. 

Rather than forcing her into the awkward position of pretending everything was fine, I decided to help. “Let me put this into words for you,” I said. 

She nodded. 

“The plastic multi-coloured measuring cups are not what you would have chosen. You want  them in metal. You would not have put them into the drawer without washing them first. And you definitely would not have tossed them in the way I just did.” 

I paused. 

“You want to be appreciative because I was trying to help. But at the same time, your irritation is winning.” 

“Yes!” she said. 

And then she added, “That is an article.” 

It’s an article because after 35 years of marriage it is clear that men and women don’t look at measuring cups in quite the same way. 

To me, the measuring cups represented a problem to be solved. We had a missing measuring cup. We now had measuring cups. 

To my wife, however, the measuring cups represented a series of entirely new problems. They were the wrong colour. They didn’t match the existing set. They were in plastic. They had bypassed the mandatory washing phase. And they had been introduced into the drawer with all the subtlety of a military invasion. 

I suspect this explains a great many things about marriage. 

Neither approach is wrong. 

Judaism, of course, has a long history of accepting that intelligent people can look at exactly the same thing and arrive at completely different conclusions. Entire volumes of Talmud are built on debating the details, volume, qualification, and definitions of “measuring cups”. 

The lessons are numerous. There are lessons about marriage, communication, intentions, expectations, and the fact that “helping” is sometimes in the eye of the beholder. 

But my biggest takeaway is this: Every morning at 04:00, I open the drawer, looking for my brightly coloured measuring cup. And when I see it I am reminded that even after 35 years of marriage, there is still an element of surprise. Not that my wife and I see the world differently. But that those offending items are somehow still in the drawer.