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My husband shows me his feet, looking distressed. “It hurts,” he says, like a child showing his mother a scraped knee. The tops of his feet are scorched bright red from the sun with a white “V” where his flip-flops had been. It isn’t the first time he’s neglected to use sunscreen.
“I told you so” is my gut response.
He bristles, expecting sympathy, tossing off a frosty gaze. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his faults. Who does?
We were spending a pleasant afternoon at the beach, taking a long walk along the shore, holding hands. We both grew up by the ocean and returned often to the music of the waves' roar.
I’m more dutiful about applying sunscreen. My mother had numerous bouts with skin cancer from years of golf tournaments. I’m always the one who remembers to bring sunscreen. After I slather it on, I suggest that my husband do the same.
Sometimes he does, other times he says, “I have my hat.”
“That’s not enough,” I say.
“I’m okay,” he insists in a tone that says the conversation is over.
Even when he does apply sunscreen, he repeatedly misses his feet. Time and again, he’ll act surprised when the painful, itchy aftereffects emerge. “I told you so,” I say again. And again. He responds with an irritated shrug. He also tends to ignore (or deny) how certain late-night foods affect his sleep. In restaurants, he can’t resist ordering the chocolatiest dessert, even though I’ve repeatedly warned him it is often laced with coffee. Yet, he indulges — only to complain the next morning that he wasn’t able to fall asleep until two A.M.
“I told you so,” I repeat with a glare. I can’t seem to stop.
I begin to dislike the sound of my voice with all my “I told you so’s.” I’m frustrated because he doesn’t take my advice, even though it’s because I love him and care about his health. I sound like a nagging mother. I don’t want to. Neither does he.
Soon after, we plan to bicycle. He’s an accomplished cyclist; in his 20s, he’d spend entire days on curving trails. My overprotective mother saw danger everywhere, not allowing me to have a bike when I was a child. I finally learned to ride in college, but have always been wobbly and uncertain at the wheel.
My husband suggests using a friend’s e-bike, claiming it would enable me to keep up with his speed and distance. I’m wary, saying, “I don’t want an e-bike.” Our friend says the first time is easy, informing us about eco-to-turbo speeds, the seven gears and how to charge the batteries. I remain doubtful.
My husband, who patiently taught our daughter to ride a bike and drive a car, takes me out to practice. He’s usually calm and soft-spoken. As he follows behind me, I nervously call out, “I can’t keep the handlebars straight!” I’m panicking as we reach a hill.
“Let the bike assist you,” he says.
I feel out of control. We reach a street with cars approaching. “Stay to the right!” he commands.
I inch to the right.
“More!” he calls. “That’s not right enough!”
“I can’t!”
“Okay, we’re going on the sidewalk now.”
I follow him onto a narrow, gravelly sidewalk with a cement wall on one side. I notice a pole on the other side, narrowing my path. I grab onto it instead of using the bike’s brakes. The next thing I know, I’m on my butt, followed by the heavy e-bike.
A bystander, accompanied by her husband and small child, rushes to help. The mother points to my right wrist, where a bruise is swelling to the size of a ping-pong ball. My left palm and right leg are bleeding. I’m lucky nothing’s broken, except my ego.
The child touches my wrist with curiosity and says, “Boo-boo.”
“Yes,” I say through tears. “Boo-boo.”
My husband leaps off his bike and squeezes hand sanitizer over my wounds. He blots my bloody scrapes with tissues. He helps me up and we walk the bikes back home, where he brings me a large container of ice. I’m too shaky to even say, “I didn’t want that e-bike. I told you so.” It isn’t until an hour of icing my bruises that I decide to talk to him in a different manner.
“I know you were trying to teach me to do something difficult. And protect me from danger. But you don’t realize how you were shouting at me. It made me feel more out of control than ever.”
He nods. He hears me. For the first time, I realize that eliminating four words — just one phrase — takes the chill out of otherwise tense conversations.
The next time we go cycling, I’ll bring the sunscreen and ride my own trusty bike, the one I’m used to and that goes only as fast as I can pedal. My husband comes home with a sunburn. Instead of saying “I told you so,” I retrieve the soothing aloe gel from the medicine chest and help him apply it. He smiles and says, “Thank you.”
Can you relate to this woman? Why or why not? Let us know in the comments below.
Naomi Elliott