Most long-marrieds, if honest, can relate to my husband Dennis and my ‘not-quite-romantic’ night out recently for Valentine’s Day. Now folks, we’ve been married for nearly 34 years, so it’s not like we’re new at this.

Everything had gone south from the time we left work, to when we arrived at our destination. We weren’t feeling warm and fuzzy towards each other, if you get my drift.

Things went downhill from there.

Women have the ‘we should talk about this’ thing going, and men have the standard, ‘you need professional help.’

“Dennis, we don’t really talk much anymore,” I offer, as we’re driving back from our definitely unromantic adventure, having spent two hours in deafening silence.

“We talk all the time,” he replied, (the man who doesn’t communicate about anything other than talking sports). “We talked last Thursday.”

“I mean, about important things. We don’t have any real conversations...about...things.”

“What things?”

“Deep things,” I responded, “like our feelings and such.”

(At this point I think I heard an utterance of intense frustration expressed, that should probably not be reprinted). “I have a ‘feeling’ that you’ve been crabby to me the whole time,” he said.

“So I’m considered crabby if I want to talk?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No, it’s not. I just thought we should discuss why we had an issue.”

“You need professional help,” he leveled. “There must be something wrong with you in that you think we need to ‘really talk’ all of the time.”

“I do need professional help; to fix the folding glass door on our bedroom closet that has never operated right for 10 years, or the carpet that isn’t quite tacked down after it’s been there for five years, or the three lights in the house that don’t work. We should get a professional to help us with that.”

“Not quite what I meant,” he responded.

“Maybe we should talk more, you think?” I questioned, thinking I’d finally gotten my point across.

“Maybe next week.”