One Marriage, Two Separate Lives: How Having Nothing in Common Arouses Discontent

Some friends of mine are debating divorce. It's a hard decision to make, but it seems they have grown apart. They recently celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary. He bought her a gold band studded with diamonds, one for each year of their marriage. She put it on her finger, rather disappointed, and promptly forgot about it. She would have preferred something more personal and romantic, like a poem, freshly picked daisies, a tattoo of her face on his bicep, or a star registered in her name.

She gave him a talisman made of rose quartz. He was puzzled, but he thanked her. Five minutes later, he tucked it into the back of his sock drawer behind the black dress-up socks that he never wore. He had hoped for something more practical, like a new hunting knife, a subscription to the Wall Street Journal, or a hundred shares of Raytheon stock.

Ten years ago, they shared many common interests. Today, it seems like he is from a different planet than she.

She believes in the healing potential of nature and crystals, the power of positive thinking, guardian angels, ghosts, goblins, and God. She scans the skies for flying saucers, but she thinks that the moon landing was a hoax. She thinks that the Warren Commission's findings were part of a larger conspiracy, but she thinks that Elvis is still alive. He believes in himself, his country, and the Second Amendment, in that order, and not much else.

The last books that he read were Death of the West by Patrick J. Buchanan, The Outline of History by H.G. Wells, In the Arena by Richard M. Nixon, Asleep Beneath the Meadows: The Indian Archaeology of Rehoboth, Massachusetts by Charles "Chip" Robinson, and Power, Pasta, and Politics by Senator Al D'Amato. The last books that she read were The Tarot Revealed by Eden Gray, and The Calorie Guide to Brand names and Basic Foods by Barbara Kraus.

He likes his steaks thick, juicy, and pink in the center. She does not eat meat, dairy products, or honey. She is a vegan.

He has a dog, a Scottish terrier named Checkers. She has a cat named Cuddles. Checkers and Cuddles no longer play nicely together, either.

He loves to watch football. It's his biggest fault. He can name every team that the New England Patriots played last season; he can also recite the final scores for each game. She hasn't watched a football game since 1986. That was the year that the Patriots lost the Super Bowl to the Chicago Bears 46-10.

She likes to watch All My Children, Days of our Lives, As the World Turns, Jerry Springer, Crossing Over with John Edwards, Saturday Night Live, and reruns of Friends. He watches C-Span.

He dresses conservatively in neutral colors, tasteful suits, and polished shoes. She dresses like a hippy, a gypsy, or worse. He thinks that she should wear clothing that is less outlandish; he offers to help her choose new clothes when she goes shopping. She thinks that he needs to "loosen up"; she threatens to burn his favorite Armani suit if he doesn't mind his business and stop criticizing her choice of attire.

He longs for the days when they were first together. He remembers that they had the same interests, hobbies, goals, and desires when they met. That was before she became obsessed with Sylvia Browne, crop circles, and aromatherapy. She also misses the time they were newlyweds, when he didn't spend all his days and nights "at the office," when he still had a sense of humor, before he got a short haircut and wore a tie, before he started voting Republican in every election.

He doesn't believe in love anymore. Perhaps he did once, a long time ago. That's why he got married in the first place. He believed that he loved her and that he always would. She believed in the same things. They were both wrong.