Shallow Diving

My wife, Amy and I sit in the car outside the book store at five minutes to ten holding hands and poised ready for a successful assignment. Capable adults, we both feel confident that today will be a big step in our marriage journey.

We started seeing our marriage counselor, Sharon, about ten weeks ago. Amy and I both knew without some intervention the derailment of our eight-year marriage would continue. Both of us too passionate and stubborn to sort out our emotions without a referee. Sharon called our couple’s cocktail a lethal mix of positive and negative that never ended in neutral. When we started therapy, mine and Amy’s conversations were so vocal neither of us heard words, but muffled tones. We argued about who was cooking dinner or politics or both. Or neither. It wasn’t until after a close friend of ours died suddenly while skiing, leaving her husband full of regrets and what if’s, that we both realized our attempt at continued companionship was pitiful. 

Sharon, older and wiser with college degrees and certifications in marriage success strategies directed us through “I” statements and intentional touching. I admit I was reluctant at first. I believed in marriage counseling, but not setting my watch every two hours on the weekend to seek out my wife for skin-to-skin touch therapy. But my stronghold loosened when I saw Amy smile the way she did when we dated in college. I had forgotten how much her toothy, plump bottom lip smile meant to me. In fact, I don’t think I really ever fully appreciated her smile until that Saturday afternoon following our second flesh session.

“Shaun, Amy,” Sharon began at our last appointment. “You have both made strides, huge strides at strengthening your marriage.”

Amy blushed. I beamed.

“But I think you both still need connect on a deeper level.  I have an assignment for you.”

Amy and I are the first ones in the door at Shield’s Press when they open. We take out our phones and set the timers for one hour. No words. We know the instructions. Meet at Rec Sec, the small café in the back of the store ready to talk. I kiss her softly on the cheek before reviewing the bestseller display.

I am tasked with finding a book that will show Amy I recognize an area of my life I need to change. Fiction, nonfiction, magazine, epic novel, picture book. Sharon calls this “tangible evidence of individual deficiencies.” While I am not a fan of finding myself deficient in any capacity, I keep my skepticism in tow as I search for my book of revelation.

I see Amy quickly pick up an at least two-inch thick book and read the cover. Seeing her go straight for the long text makes my competitive juices wake up and take notice more than they should have.

“It’s not about the length. It’s not whose book is longer,” I mutter to myself returning the six-hundred-page biography on Abraham Lincoln I had picked up back to its shelf space.

I wander towards the magazines and see the May edition of Sports Illustrated. Sports and my deficiency, there has to be some correlation. My mind races until it stops.  I don’t go to the gym enough. I eat way too many carbs. I recognize two deficiencies!

I take the magazine from the rack and look for one of Shield’s signature leather chairs to read it. I believe the reason Shield’s is still around in the Amazon eat all book market has to do with the custom-made chairs bought in Italy by the owner when he first opened the store. 

I walk towards a chair by the best sellers and indie books, but a woman with her young child snags it first. I peer down two more aisles. No vacancies. Feeling like the chair is an integral part of the assignment’s success, I peer down the third aisle.  One open. I stand taller and take quick tiny steps to zig and zag around three patrons. I throw my cardigan on the chair to claim it before my physical presence sits down.

The smooth worn leather patina of the club chair welcomes my butt. I flip the magazine open to the table of contents hoping that one of the cover stories will be about exercise or diet. Early predictions for football showdowns. The anatomy of a baseball. Tennis stars unite for charity. If I was reading the magazine for pleasure, I would read all of these stories. They do me no good today.

If picking out the book isn’t hard enough, sharing my reasoning for the choice with my wife scares me.  Deep reasoning. It’s like sharing a piece of my soul- a feeling men rarely even admit exists. I start to panic. Thirty-four minutes left to rendezvous. Feeling deficient with my present selection, I look at the book section titles attached to the shelves for reprieve.

Gardening. I promote green space, but choose not to partake in keeping it up.

Parenting. No kids. No need. At least today.

Self-Care.  I mentally smack myself in the head as to why I would not have migrated to this section first. My deficiencies have to be covered in one of these books. I scan the titles. Power of the Mind. Your Goals, Your Career. Vegan’s Guide to Amazing Meals.

I start to think the Sports Illustrated might suffice, but decide to walk the section one more time. On second viewing, I see a smallish paperback turned face out and read the title out loud.

“The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life - Before 8AM”

And as if some demi-God of Sharon is standing behind me chanting, “Look deeper Shaun. Look deeper,” I realize my deficiency goes beyond not exercising enough or ordering pasta too often. My problem is that I cannot convince myself to get out of bed in the morning. I read the back cover faster than the time I had forgotten to read my boss’ client summary and read it in the elevator on the way up to a meeting with a potentially lucrative client. I had found my deficiency. I could not wait to share my discovery with Amy.

I pay for the book, excited that I have fifteen minutes left. Casually I meander to the café contemplating what warm beverages I would buy for Amy and myself.

Amy is already there with coffees, plain, and a strawberry pastry, two forks. Amy looks radiant and possessed, like she is ready to jump out of her seat.

“I found the perfect book to match my deficiency,” she proudly shares. The more I think about it the more I wish Sharon had never invited the word deficiency to be part of our marital vocabulary.

“You can go first though Shaun if you want to,” she reluctantly says hoping that I will catch on and let her talk first. She knows I already know. Even when playing poker, Amy’s face reveals her cards.

Reluctantly, out of my own excitement, I say with a tight jaw, “Of course you can go first.” I know this decision is best for our assignment and for us as a couple, giving her the chance to spill her enthusiasm.

Surprisingly, she starts with a question.

“Do you remember when we went to New York and saw Hamilton on Broadway?”

How could I forget? The tickets and the trip to New York cost more than our honeymoon to Mexico.

“Yes, I remember going. All those words!” I laugh.

“Do you remember who wrote the musical and played Alexander Hamilton when we saw the show?”

I think about the answer and what it has to do with our marriage counseling assignment. Is she telling me she likes this lyricist?

Before say words I will regret, I breathe recalling Sharon’s advice about listening with intent. Amy has center stage.

She sees me struggling and reaches under the table to pull out her book. I see the author’s name.

“Lin-Manuel Miranda, that’s right!” I shout like I figured out the missing link to a puzzle. “That’s the Hamilton guy.”

In my exuberance, I draw my own conclusion about Amy’s deficiency. A sleep issue. With a book title of Gmorning, Gnight, what other problem could she have?

“Melatonin!” I yell. Amy and I both have morning issues. I did not think our deficiencies would overlap.

“Shaun, excuse me? What are you talking about?”

“Your deficiency - you don’t sleep well. We can pick up Melatonin and lavender at the drug store on the way home,” I declare nearly patting myself on the back for being able to understand Amy before she tells me. Maybe we can skip a couple of sessions with Sharon now. I flip through her book’s pages.

“Reminds me Shel Silverstein’s style. I love Where the Sidewalk Ends.”

Amy’s once rosy face now awash in white. So white I wonder if she may pass out. Her nose wrinkles slightly upward as tears trickle out of the corners of her eyes. She looks like she is holding back a crying onslaught.

My brain begins to start to work again and I realize I have not given Amy a chance to tell her story. I encourage her to share, “It’s okay that I know the big reveal up front. I want to hear how you went from that thick book you looked at when we first came in to this,” holding up the Miranda book.

I am correct about an onslaught, but not the type. Amy explodes.

“I do not have a sleep problem. And if you would have let me talk even for two minutes you would have realized I have a gratitude problem.” Amy says pushing through her tears. I realize am screwing up this assignment.

Determined, Amy continues, “I do not show you enough gratitude. Show I appreciate you and our life.” Amy takes a deep inhale. “I thought I could read you excerpts from the book in the morning before we get out of bed and well, at night too. Starting and ending my day with gratitude and not who left the lid off the peanut butter jar.”

Unsure of what to say next I utter in defeat, “I am sorry. I am the ass who should have let you tell your story.”

“You’d better go find a book for that deficiency. I’m going to the romance section.” Amy pushes away the chair and heads towards the stacks with red hearts hanging above them.

I sit staring at pastry crumbs and two empty, white ceramic mugs splattered with coffee residue, possibly the only remnants of mine and Amy’s counseling successes. I wonder would Sharon would call this. A third-party deficiency realization? 

Amy is right. I need a second book. And my chair.