Ignoring Me? A Shortcut to the End of Marriage

Mr Jones is currently working away in a very heated country, and by heated, I mean in both temperature and temperament. It’s his third trip out there this year, and as usual, our phone calls come with the occasional delay, random beeps, and that strange time-travel feeling (he’s two hours ahead, with 5:30am starts, all while I’m still star-fishing in bed).

Anyway, the other day he told the office staff, locals who know the place inside out, that he wasn’t planning to come back for another stint. And when they asked why, he said:

“Because my wife isn’t happy with me being here. Not with the ongoing conflict. And has jokingly threatened the end of marriage... Well, I think she's joking but I'm not willing to take that risk!”

They laughed. Not because they thought he was under the thumb, poor man, but because in that part of the world, the very idea of a wife’s opinion influencing her husband’s decision was… let’s just say, unexpected.

In fact, one lady laughed particularly hard. And all I could think was, imagine living in a world where your husband hears, “I don’t want you there” and files it under 'noise pollution'. Sure, mine might ignore the odd shopping list (not exactly end of marriage stuff), but he knows the difference between “we’re out of milk” and “I'm not sitting here worrying about you for months on end - enough please.”

Now, I’m not about to start finger-pointing at cultures, religions, or entire societies. That’s not my job and not my business.

But it did make me think about how often women’s voices, opinions, and instincts are silenced, sometimes subtly, sometimes with a slam. And how we don’t always realise the value of being heard until we see what life looks like without it.

Not that it should feel like a luxury. To me, it’s a basic human right to feel heard and respected. But then again, so is owning an orange-flavoured cat who terrorises the house at 3am to me, so maybe I’m not the best person to judge.

Of course, in true Mr J fashion, he then joked that maybe he 'wouldn’t mind having a wife who did as she was told for once'. An 'upgrade', if you like. A quieter model. One without the daily grumps, disapproving looks, or the occasional avalanche of words hurled his way before her first coffee kicks in...

Which was around the same time as my 'gentle reminder' that I know how to change the front door locks. And promptly, before he gets home.

But let’s be honest, he wouldn’t actually enjoy the 'Upgrade'. Sure, a silent, obedient wife might sound appealing on paper, but in practice? Boring.

He thrives on the sparring.

The sarcasm.

The occasional mid-morning debate about whether my drying rack stacking counts as creative expression or a crime against crockery!

I laugh, because we've been together nearly fives years, and never in that time have I been the quiet subdued type. My dating profile was a full on rant about 'Don't bother contacting me if you want to spend the weekend propping up the bar!'  (A detail most applicants ignored, asking me out for drinks anyway. Not Mr J though - he saw that hurdle and jumped it like a prize-winning hobby horse enthusiast.)

It's safe to say the idea of me toning it down, of being the “Yes dear” wife who smiles sweetly while biting her tongue... Not happening.

And maybe that’s the point. It’s not about being loud for the sake of it - it’s about being able to speak at all. About knowing your words aren’t dismissed as background static, but are actually heard. Even if, occasionally, they are accompanied with the threat of a frying pan to the back of the head. (Kidding… mostly.)

No, we don’t do quiet. We don’t do “everything’s fine, dear” while secretly planning a dramatic exit in the background.

We do loud.

We do messy.

We do saying the wrong thing and then passive-aggressively avoiding it until it feels right again.

And maybe that’s what unsettled me about his colleagues laughing. Not because they found it funny, but because for them, a wife’s voice in a decision like this is funny. Alien. Out of place. Whereas for us, it’s Tuesday.

So no, I’m not about to apologise for being vocal, sarcastic, or occasionally exhausting. He signed up for this version, lock-changing threats and all.

And that racing heart? He calls it stress. But I prefer to think of it as a healthy reminder that he's alive, and not buried under the communal carpark.

Yet! P.S. If you laughed at this more than you’d like to admit, my book Raising an Emotionally Charged Ostrich is packed with the same kind of laugh-out-loud chaos. Grab a copy on Amazon, or if you'd prefer a signed edition, just drop me a message.

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 "The most important four words for a successful marriage: I’ll do the dishes."

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