You know how I love my Fancy Therapist. It’s getting H to embrace the relationship that is difficult. Oh, he’s fine with me paying someone hundreds of dollars every 1-2 weeks to “talk it out.” But part of working on making a marriage strong and successful means both parties have to make an effort. Half my therapy sessions focus on how to get H into FT’s office. Not that there are big issues, but he needs to check in once in a while, have his butt kicked a bit and walk out a nicer, kinder husband. It’s a process he resists fiercely but I laid down the law at New Years: get yourself to a session or refuse at your own peril. This is just one thing he cannot outsource.
So, kicking and screaming, he went. And called me later that day, his tone of voice softer, his terms of endearment more readily forthcoming. Whatever they’d talked about, it was working.
I don’t usually ask H for a play-by-play of his sessions. I just make my own appointment a few days later and learn the salient points directly. H generally doesn’t want to discuss it (because of guilt?! Yes, you do have a fabulous wife!) but a couple days ago he looked at me and started laughing.
“What? Why are you laughing?”
“Fancy Therapist said that you’re really much better looking now than when I met you.”
“Really?” I asked, not really flattered. (After all, what does that mean? I didn't think I was that bad.)
“Yeah, actually, when we met, you were kind of a hick,” he chuckled.
“And what about you?” I prodded, poking his belly.
“I’d better step up my game.”
Money well spent, I’d say.