I think I finally discovered what it’s like to be a man.
My husband and I dated five years before our marriage during which we walked through every. single. kind. of relational drama. When we were young and in love, when life was a veritable cartoon love story complete with singing bluebirds and that soft focus of gauzy romance, we experienced—and analyzed— first hand the very real differences between men and women.
I learned that when a man says he’s not thinking anything, he really means it. Exactly nothing is on his mind. His silence does not mean he hates you. He learned to accept my apparent non-sequiters are par for the course. I have a very adorable habit of interrupting silence with a conversation that I’d been having in my head. He finds it disorienting. I tell him most women do this. (Sisters, back me up on this one.)
We learned, together, thanks to Woody Harrelson and White Men Can’t Jump that when a couple faces a problem, their approach to identifying and handling the problem are as different as Adam and Eve.
“I’m thirsty,” the girlfriend in the movie says.
Woody’s character unfolds himself from his comfortable position, fills a glass with water and delivers it to her. He served her exactly what she wanted. He’s figuring on some extra gold stars for that.
She is furious. She never asked for no stinkin’ glass of water. She said she was thirsty. She expains:
“I don’t want you to get me water. I want you to understand my thirst.”
Women, generally—and I generally avoid generalizations, so you’ll grant me this one—confront problems with words. Many, many words. Words upon words until barrels are full of the same thoughts and feelings swimming in a chaotic blend of emotion and speech. So much speech. Men may wonder when they can get off this carousel, because jeez, already.
Men hear the problem—again generally—and want to solve the problem. In fact, they can solve the problem. Bam. Just like that he’s got the hammer out fixing the protruding nail, or he pronounces, “Well, just do (whatever it is that is the solution).” He wipes his palms together, feeling rather victorious. Problem solved.
Thing is, women, as we are talking, know the answer. We know the solution. We’re just processing through every little detail first.
Which brings me to how I know what it feels like to be a man.
Recently, our teenaged daughter had a weird and complicated and short-lived falling out with one of her friends. In this mother’s view, our daughter was wronged—wronged I tell you—and I wanted to call her friend and give that kid a piece of my mind.
I wanted to tell my daughter all the things that are true. That you don’t need this drama. That if that’s how she treats friends, maybe it’s time to reassess. That this won’t matter tomorrow. That walking away is smart and mature.
Ok, let’s be honest. I did tell her those things. And I probably sounded like my mother, and my daughter probably rolled her world-wise eyes. I wanted to solve the problem and dust off my hands, wiping away her tears and her pain.
“I know, Mom.”
But she cried. And I was impotent to stop the hurt. And I had not weapons to wield. And she cried. She cried that kind of ugly cry we women do, when our faces get all red and pinched up. And she threw herself dramatically on her bed and wailed. Are all teenagers gifted in the dramatic arts?
And all I needed to say was…nothing. Because she knows. And because my open heart is right where it needs to be, waiting. Because I know she needs me to “understand her thirst,” not jump in and fight her battles.
Sometimes, I’m even able to do it, to understand the subtext, to read the words she didn’t write, to hear the cry she didn’t speak. I’m proud to say I stopped talking. I listened and I let her cry.