My husband and I have been married 11 years. Eleven years, three continents, two kids, and thousands of frequent flyer miles.
I’m South African and he’s American, but even when we’re both speaking English it has often felt like we’re speaking different languages. He’d fill up the gas tank, go grocery shopping and help do the laundry and I’d wonder why he never came home with roses. I’d share the nuances of my day with him, hang out for hours just talking and he complained that I felt more like a roommate
than a wife.
We loved each other, sure. We just weren’t that great at translating that love into a language the other could understand. And the irony, of course, is that neither of us wanted to fess up to what we needed from the other. Even when it began to emerge from many, many, many rounds of arguments what we were each looking for. Putting it into words just seemed (to me at least) to drain the romance right out of the gesture.
Boy I wish I could go back in time and whack my newly-married self over the head.