The First Year of Marriage

What made me think that I — a driven career hound — would make a good wife?

By Lea Goldman

Just eight hours into my marriage and I was already faking it. Debilitated by exhaustion, I peeled off my wedding dress and mustered the energy to change into a wickedly uncomfortable, laughably over-the-top lingerie set that had me spilling out of every seam. This is what new wives are supposed to do, right? Never mind that, in that moment, I had zero desire to start fulfilling wifely obligations.

That should have been my first clue that my artfully constructed notion of marriage was short a few planks. While I anticipated inevitable snags — my husband, Ofer, is careful with money, I'm a spendthrift — I did not foresee the tectonic friction that would arise when a driven, working woman shoehorns herself into the most old-fashioned role in human history.

The changes crept up on me. Late nights used to find me click-clacking away on my computer, working into the wee hours. But I've all but lost that mojo since I got hitched (not just because so much of my old prose was devoted to disastrous blind dates and lofty musings about being alone in the big bad city). Back in the day, if I wasn't working, I was drinking, nursing Screwdrivers, and dishing off-color stories to my rapt gaggle of pals before rolling from bar stool to bed. Now? Not so much. I wind down earlier, as though abiding by an understood curfew imposed on responsible married women — in bed, lights out by midnight. The few wine bottles we keep in our apartment just in case company pops in (note: company never pops in) are coated with a thin layer of dust.

That wasn't the plan. When we tied the knot in November 2007 after five years of on-and-off dating, we were both in our 30s and absorbed by our bustling careers and buzzy social lives; neither of us intended to dial back our routines for a spouse, save for a few minor details. For instance, we maintain our own checking accounts but contribute to a shared savings pool. As such, our spending habits remain our own, free from the other's judgment. (He hasn't a clue about my regular massages; I have not an iota of interest in the nondescript brown boxes that periodically show up bearing labels like CompuWorld and Bit Tech.) With our combined cash flow, we fantasized about upgrading to snazzier digs (we haven't) and taking indulgent vacations (we don't). Best of all, we could throw money at pesky domestic problems. Who has time to cook? No problem, we'll order in. Apartment's a mess? Easy, just hire a housekeeper. Domestic squabbles? No worries, we'll see a couples counselor and let her untangle the knots. Wow, I mused, I can't believe I figured out the key to a successful career and marriage this early on in the game — outsourcing!

But our even-steven partnership faltered fast. Household realities like checking up on the cleaning woman, making sure the fridge was stocked, even scheduling our therapy sessions became my responsibility. My husband calls it "marching" — the ability to plow ahead in the face of distractions and challenges. "I'm just not a marcher, and you're so good at that," he coos, a backhanded compliment that in effect crowns him the Don to my foot soldier. He makes the big decisions, I do the dirty work.

There were other collisions I didn't expect in our rookie year. We agreed at the outset to table the issue of children for one year, then seriously discuss the whens and hows. Here we are, skirting that one-year mark, and the heightened baby talk has revealed our true feelings about each other's careers. The one with the more "flexible" job should assume the bulk of the parental responsibilities, we decided. But the question of who had the more flexible job quickly became a nasty debate over who worked harder, longer, and for more money. Ofer is still reeling from my suggestion that he be a stay-at-home dad. "What are you trying to say, that you think I'm not going anywhere?" he railed, wounded. I countered, "So then what, I'm supposed to just take care of a baby by myself?" That tussle ended in a dead heat, with Ofer suggesting we get a dog instead (although that idea ended in a predictable "Who's gonna walk it?" stalemate).

One night over drinks with my best friend, Tony, I hesitantly, delicately articulated some of the disappointments I had discovered in marriage. "Oh," Tony remarked grimly. "I'm really sorry to hear things aren't working out." What? Who said they weren't working out? (Another startling realization in the first year of marriage: Careful who you share your woes with.) Sure, I'd mentally entertained the "D" word during some of the bigger blowups, but Ofer and I had always resolved our disputes — or at least called a cease-fire — by the time our heads hit the pillows. Tony's interpretation frightened me, undermined my confidence. Am I really failing at this? I'm the gal who bulldozed her way from the secretarial pool to the upper echelons of her profession. I've never failed at anything.

I spent the next 20 minutes backpedaling, detailing how taken I was with this strapping self-starter who arrived in New York City from Israel a decade ago with a few hundred bucks to his name, taught himself the language, hustled a gig as an overnight dispatcher for a car company while he schooled himself on how to program computers. All marriages have their ups and downs, I insisted. There are mornings I want to stay permanently curled beside my husband and other evenings when I dillydally on my way home, savoring the time alone.

"Well, they say the first year of marriage is the toughest," Tony muttered in what can only be called the understatement of the (first) year. I cling to the hope that clichés like that don't apply just to mundane domestic spats, but also to the profound identity crisis that afflicts a tenacious career woman once she adds wife to her résumé. I spent my life stalking my dreams. I'm still not entirely comfortable doing that while arm-in-arm with someone else.

As we neared our one-year anniversary, my husband coaxed me into skydiving, despite my deep dislike of speed and heights. (He promised me outlet shopping on the way back.) My tandem instructor had to pry my hands from the side of the rickety twin-engine and nudge me off the ledge into the cold, blank sky. I pressed my eyes shut at first, stricken with uncertainty and terrified of getting hurt. But once the parachute deployed, I spent the duration of that quiet descent feeling satisfied — accomplished, even. I looked for my husband in the ether, wondering where we might land, reassured by the knowledge that it would be on solid ground.

MARRIAGE BY THE NUMBERS
$74,000 Average household income of newlyweds.

27 Average age American women marry. Japan: 29.8 France: 28.8 U.K.: 33.6

3% of first marriages end in divorce or separation after the first year. An estimated 20% of divorces occur within the first five years.

$80 billion Total amount of money couples spend in the first year of marriage on financial, auto, and home-related products.

Fewer than 5% of first-year spouses cheat.