Faith
&
Family
Passing through the many lovely rows of household goods at TJ Maxx last weekend, the prettiest glass tumbler no-so mysteriously ended up in my cart. It possibly shouldn’t have—I was supposed to be picking out my mom’s birthday gift, not shopping for anything for myself—but there was no resisting the elegant pink florals and ornate patterns decorating this particular cup.
As the cashier carefully wrapped my new drinkware in tissue paper for the ride home, though, I knew even then the bleak fate it was doomed for: a dusty, pointless existence at the bottom of one of our kitchen cupboards. After all, it’s the same place my other “pretty” cups have gone to die. I don’t buy things just to not use them, of course; every mug and tumbler I own was purchased thoughtfully—and most likely for a steep price. (Among others, there’s one that I picked up from a stationery store inside the Mall of America, and another blue and pink ombré-style cup serves as a memento from the marriage conference Mike and I attended years ago.) It’s just that it never takes more than a couple of uses for the excitement of a new cup to subside. In this present Stanley-obsessed era, is this something you’ve noticed, too?
It’s the same narrative with brand-new clothing, for that matter: I’ll decide a shirt is nothing short of an artistic masterpiece and invite it to take up space in my closet. For several wears it’s the perfect fit and the top I pair with pretty much everything. It’s the star of my wardrobe; the proud recipient of infinite compliments! But then Thursday comes along, and that same shirt is suddenly no longer “it.” The once coveted look exudes monotony now, as the material clings to roly-poly parts of my stomach it never seemed to before. Then, casually strolling through the women’s clothing section at Walmart one afternoon, a newly unveiled blouse overflowing with charm grabs my attention, and just like that—I’ve got a new favorite shirt. It’s a consistent cycle, honestly: fall completely in love only for the novelty to wear off.
Incidentally, isn’t this a concept we’re well-acquainted with in marriage?
Christian comedian Tim Hawkins does a bit about this in one of his stand-up specials. He points out (in his over-thetop, trademark way) that those ooey gooey, mushy gushy feelings that render us hypnotized when we fall in love tend to fizzle out in no time. Almost comically, we married couples go from craving each other to craving space.
When Mike and I were dating, I couldn’t bear being apart from him for more than a millisecond, so instead of hanging up the phone with each other at night, the calls would continue as we slept—well, he’d sleep, and I’d listen to him snore. It was sincerely the sweetest thing in those days, soaking up every deafening rumble as air passed like a freight train through my boyfriend’s nostrils on the other end of the line. Today, though—after being married to this man for many years—I don’t find this remotely endearing. How is a girl supposed to sleep as a chainsaw concerto reverberates in her ear? I’ll usually allow my husband a good ten minutes to collect himself before finally kicking off the blankets and readying myself for war.
Friends, it just happens: whether we’re talking about a $50 insulated cup (evidently some Stanley tumblers have sold for a whopping several hundred dollars each), or the person we deeply love, that “new” feeling fades fast. (Sooooooooooo fast.)
But don’t mistake this declining intensity as some sort of red flag. Becoming comfortable with a person doesn’t necessarily have negative implications—if it did, wouldn’t every marriage be destined for defeat?
Instead, what if we viewed this whole situation as something good? Rather than deeming familiarity in marriage bad, what if we opted to make it the goal? Those “butterflies” when we meet are certainly wonderful, but isn’t that deeply rooted, no longer walking on egg shells, seen-each-otherat- our-worst-and-still-stuck-around kind of love pretty spectacular, too? My husband’s nose trumpet might keep me awake sometimes, but there isn’t another man I’d rather gorge on Chinese food with while watching The King of Queens.
Opening our kitchen cupboard the other day to make room for my new TJ Maxx tumbler, I glimpsed dust collecting on my other cups. My mouth twisting into a grin, I made a note to integrate them back into my cup-use rotation. Their newness wore off a while back, but they still have so much life left.
A resident of McDonough County, Erin Eddy lives in Macomb with her husband, Mike, their five boys, and two zealous Australian Shepherds. She aspires to uplift readers, penning stories of encouragement and everyday life. Her work has been featured on the influential website Her View From Home, as well as the book series Chicken Soup for the Soul. Contact [email protected].
