Downbeat: The Married Version of “Getting Ready”

There comes a point in every marriage when a man learns that “getting ready” is not a shared activity. It is a weather system.

You can observe it. You can track it. You can even make foolish predictions about when it might pass. But you do not walk directly into it unless you have accepted the consequences.

Around our house, the bathroom becomes command central about forty-five minutes before we leave for dinner, a show, or anything involving another couple who said, “Come whenever,” but clearly meant 6:00.

Janus moves in there with purpose. The counter fills up with brushes, bottles, sprays, clips, cords, tubes, powders, and several devices that appear to have been designed by NASA and sold at Ulta. I cannot tell you what they do, but I know some of them are hot because I have bumped into them and received my continuing education.

My role during this process is simple.

Stay out of the way.

This sounds easy until you realize the only sink I need is in the same room where a full production is underway. I will occasionally step in, pick up my toothbrush, and try to look casual, like a stagehand crossing behind the lead actress during Act Three.

Sometimes I pace in the hallway.

Not much. Just enough to communicate urgency while pretending not to communicate urgency. In husband language, this means, “We are exactly on time if we leave right now.” In wife language, this means, “Why are you standing there breathing like that?”

Then comes the phrase every husband learns to decode.

“I’m almost ready.”

Early in marriage, I thought this meant she was almost ready. That was sweet. Now I understand it means I should go sit in my chair, leave her alone, and accept that readiness is a journey, not a clock-based event.

The chair is important. Every husband needs a departure chair. It is where we sit fully dressed, holding the car keys, pretending we are relaxed men with nowhere to be.

We may glance at the clock, but we do it gently. A loud clock glance can add seven minutes.

Then the outfits begin.

I have seen Janus try on seven different versions of looking nice, all of which looked nice, while I stood there offering the kind of support usually associated with bomb disposal.

“What do you think of this one?”

“That looks great.”

“You said that about the other one.”

“And I was right both times.”

This is not helpful.

Then come the shoes, which is where many husbands have been spiritually humbled.

“Which shoes do you like better?”

This is not a question about shoes. This is a marital exam with no answer key. I have learned not to say, “Which ones are more comfortable?” because that suggests I have misunderstood the assignment. Comfort is for recliners and orthopedic inserts. Shoes are making a statement, and apparently the statement cannot be, “My arches feel supported.”

Eventually I reach the final stage.

“I’ll be in the car.”

This means I can no longer pretend to be calm inside the house, but I am perfectly willing to be calm in the driveway for fifteen minutes.

Honestly, the car is not a bad place to wait. I enter the address into the maps app. I compare routes. I calculate whether we can still make it if every light turns green and several laws become suggestions.

And somehow, after all that, Janus comes out looking wonderful, settles into the passenger seat like we were never in danger, and says, “See? We’re fine.”

And she is right.

We usually arrive on time. Maybe not peacefully. Maybe not without me doing quiet math at stoplights. But we arrive together, which after all these years may be the real trick.

Marriage teaches you many things. One of them is that getting ready is not about leaving the house.

It is about learning when to help, when to compliment, when to stop talking, and when to go sit in your chair.

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Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker & Humble Observer

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