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You don’t need a degree in psychology to know that women are the great communicators of the sexes. This well-recorded reality may present vindication for all of the “Chatty Cathys” of the world; however, it also adds to relationship woes where communication-craving girlfriends are left screaming mad, trying to get their dreamboats to open up. While this task is easier said than done, there are a few things you can do to win this communication coup.
Don’t open your conversation with dreaded lead-ins like “We need to talk…” and “What’s wrong?”
Rationale: These words produce a “fright and flight” response.
Easy fix: Open your talk with noncommittal language at noncommittal moments. If you’re concerned about his ongoing bout with his mother, casually ask, “How’s your mother?” This will open the door for discussion.
Don’t smack him down with the biggest question on your mind: “When will you marry me?”
Rationale: This is confrontational. Every word that follows will sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wha wha wha.” Easy fix: Instead of asking about his desires, tell him yours. If he feels the same, he’ll come around.
Don’t ask, “How do you feel about me?” after sex. Rationale: You can’t believe anything he’s saying at that moment. Hopped up on his orgasm, he might even propose.
Easy fix: Communicate your feelings during “we time.” While listening to music, say, “I love that we enjoy the same music.” This will give him a chance to express his feelings.
Don’t begin conversations with confrontational statements: “You need to get your credit cleaned up!”
Rationale: Unless they ask for advice, men despise being told what they should be thinking or doing.
Easy fix: Casually state the facts and provide numbers. Men are goal-oriented. Mention that in order to move into his dream home, he’ll need $60K and a FICO of 800.
Don’t say a word leading into an emotional exchange when he’s enjoying “he time.”
Rationale: From televised sports events to his beloved beer time on the couch, men have their own “me time.”
Easy fix: Wait until he’s done, kiss him on the cheek, and sweetly say, “I love you.”
Don’t dominate the conversation with your own ideas if he’s quiet and not responding.
Rationale: If you become the talker, he’ll become the listener.
Easy fix: Listen and learn. If you open the conversation and he’s quiet, let there be silence until he opens up. You’ll learn a lot based on what he’s not saying.
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While 99.9 percent of the people in the universe had solid bets on Lionel saying no to New York, no one was willing to put money on Kyle saying no to Troy. For, the man of the Lord had taken the old biblical quote to heart and loved his wife the way Jesus loved the church and since the day they’d met, whenever it came to matters of the heart, he was torn between the two.
For this particular showdown, on this particularly cold evening, Troy was sitting in the first pew on the last night of First Baptist’s annual revival. The pastor was at the altar, but not at the pulpit, playing host to the revival’s guest speaker, the Reverend Bigsby Bigelow-Goode, a fire-and-brimstone big-tent revivalist, who’d been sent up north by Kyle’s grandfather. It was Saturday evening and the last hour of the sixth night of the revival and Troy’s ears were ringing from all of the tambourines chinking around her. Every time Bigelow-Goode said anything on a high note, the room shook with the noisy instruments, and Troy was five clinks away from turning around and snatching one from a church mother seated behind her. While First Baptist was a large church, sitting inside the pews every night for hours during the revival made it mid-sized. And then even smaller because every space in the aisle was taken by a metal seat to accommodate the growing crowds bused in from around the city. It was 10 p.m. and the floor was sweating, the wooden walls popping in. Children of every age, even teenagers, had given up and fallen asleep in the pews, some on the floors. It was a pressure cooker of praise and if the Holy Spirit didn’t whisper in someone’s ear, it might be their conscience telling them to “go outside and get some air!” before they fainted.
“An, an, an, an youa…youa…youa betta fear the Lord! Fear him!” Bigelow-Goode s
houted so loud only static went into the microphone with his spit. Far into his seventies, he was wearing a little white suit that was two sizes too small and two decades old and two seasons early. While his shoes were a mismatch in brown, his cotton-top Afro mixed just fine with the suit. “For the wraff of the Almightay isa comin’ and i’s gonna destroy the devil an alla alla alla…” There was clinking and cheering. “I said alla evila mena that don’t knowa the Lord!”
Troy’s body was tired to the bone. She was sinking in. Trying to pay attention, waving her handkerchief high now and again and standing up sometimes, but really fading. For the last six days, six different holy men had said the same holy message in a different holy way and she was worn down. She looked at Kyle to break her thoughts of snatching the tambourine. He was shaking his head along with everyone else. A believer. Not doing like she was. He didn’t seem tired. Didn’t seem pushed in and choking. He was right there with Bigelow-Goode, and so far away from Troy.
“An evra, evra man, wombman, and chile had betta get right in the good book before that happins!”
The lady with the tambourine behind Troy fell out. Someone hollered, “Hallelu-JAH.” Bigelow-Goode hopped off of the altar like a rock star and ran down the sliver of aisle left, tapping heads as he went along, shouting mercies and prayers, saying he could save souls and you had to be willing. Troy watched as the heads of every single person he touched fell back hard into the arms of people around them. They were entranced. Away. In the spirit. Getting the spirit.
Kiona, who was sitting beside Troy, was crying and grabbing onto Troy’s hand.
“Praise God!” Kiona cried, her grip tightening. She looked at Troy. “Do you feel that? Do you feel the spirit in here? It’s all around. Everywhere.” Kiona was weeping now, thumping her feet along, two beats faster than the drummer, who’d caught the pacing of Bigelow-Goode as he scurried around the room.
One by one Troy watched everyone in the room fall out. Kyle was crying. And then, in a second, it seemed liked everyone, everyone in the church was either on the floor, picking someone off of the floor, or jumping for joy. Everyone but Troy.
She gave show the way she knew how, but Bigelow-Goode had his eyes on her from the moment he noticed the biggest diamond he’d ever seen shining from her ring finger. Bigelow-Goode hopped like a bandleader to the front of the room with a crowd of deacons riding close behind him. He leapt and hollered out for the Holy Ghost and then he was there, in front of Troy, his hand high like a witness about to slap truth on the Bible.
“The Lord told me to come right, right now!” He pointed to the ground. “Right here with the First Lady of First Baptist.”
