Dating someone hard of hearing
Yom Kippur, the Jewish holiday of repentance, had barely been over for 14 hours and I was already fighting with my husband. Over our poached kale and egg salads with a side of chickpeas I notice my firecracker friend is uncharacteristically glum.Has my Teflon-coated mind not retained a single shred of serenity? When Peter died, the only thing that kept me sane was writing about grief. I recognized that by spewing out my emotions with honesty, I was helping others which meant it was work that made me satisfied.My husband and I have been together for over 20 years. We met in high school and watched each other graduate high school, college, and graduate school, find (and change) careers, and become parents.We watched each other become adults and now we are watching each other age. I meet my friend Geraldine at a hip, local eatery in the heart of Abbot Kinney in Venice Beach.
Here, you'll find all the latest stories, news and more surrounding dating, marriage, divorce, sex and modern relationships.One fascinating aspect of my work as a couples/ family therapist is that it gives me an intimate view into the current cultural dynamics of couples.For the last twenty or so years, over half the couples I see contain the "nice guy" with his frustrated wife.His arms and legs were tangled in mine, our first night together. I felt free and bold and wildly unguarded, until his rough voice scratched against my ear. It wasn’t what he’d said that murdered my mood but that I couldn’t hear it. He took my silence as lack of interest, and I didn’t correct him.
Confessions of maladies should be a clothed conversation, something I’d divulge eventually … Standing at 5-foot-8, I appeared willowy and well dressed; he probably noticed my Irish eyes first and then studied their contrast to my bronze Colombian skin.This man, with everyone else, assumed that I was a healthy young woman. There was no wheelchair, no trained animal by my side. But at 24, I had gone from a feisty, uninhibited, outspoken yogini to a statistic. I’d been sitting in my midtown office when it started, typing another day away in my job as an assistant (read: glorified coffee fetcher).