Day 100: An Open Letter to My Wife

(image by LarimdaME)

Dear Asia,

I just got kicked out of the house.

Ten minutes ago, while I was working from home in my holey gray sweats, I heard a banging on the front door. I thought it was UPS or something at first, but it wasn't.

It was the exterminator. I forgot you had scheduled him to come through today. He stood there with all his supplies, ready to blaze the place with insecticide or whatever they use. At first I told him to come back another time. I was on deadline with an assignment. But I know how much you hate bugs. (With all that squealing, I think the whole neighborhood knows how much you hate bugs.) So I told him to go ahead with it. He said I would have to go somewhere for two hours because if I stayed, I wouldn't be able to breathe.

You're using the car today. So now I’m here at the coffee shop down the street, sitting at a corner table with my laptop. (I guess this means I'm a real writer now.)

I know you won't read this letter until later. You're at work and I won’t even see you for another seven hours. But I’m taking you out tonight. So be ready. What’s the occasion? You and I, darling, have been married for 100 days. It's a celebration.

Truth be told, this has been the longest 100 days of my God-given life. But I can't imagine it any other way with anyone other than you. This whole week, I’ve been thinking about everything that has happened in the past three months, so pardon me while I get my reminisce on...

At this time, 100 days ago, I was choking on salt water somewhere under the Caribbean Sea. I couldn’t breathe and I panicked. As we were scuba diving off the coast of St. Lucia, I really thought my life was over. I even imagined what my tombstone might say:

Here lies Russell Nichols (1983 – 2009) In St. Lucia, he took the plunge. Literally.

We survived, but we’ve been caught in the undercurrents of reality ever since.

Early on, we wasted time arguing about a whole lot of nothing. I fought for independence. I felt like you were trying to strip me of my identity. I struggled to see us as one. But my biggest fight was my own battle of Jericho. I always knew I had issues with pride, but I never really had to confront them until I fell for you. Before, I could do whatever I wanted; I was a romantic loner, a freelance lover. Still dealing with pains from my past, I kept my guard up. I didn’t let anyone get close enough to hurt me. I thought I could carry that mentality into the marriage. I was wrong.

Pride goes before destruction, a lesson I refused to learn. In that case, maybe what happened on Day 27 was a warning, or an omen of sorts. I was in a four-car collision that totaled my truck, Trinity. It tore me up inside. I know you never fully understood what she meant to me, but you helped me through the grieving process. And you were there when the banks kept turning me down for a car loan because of my bad credit. Through it all, you stayed positive and told me it will all work out -- even though I didn't want to hear it at the time.

Indeed, we are different in many ways, polar opposites. But those differences bring balance. You have taught me so much about life, about love, about faith. You showed me how to open up my heart to the possibility of human poetry.

On Day 80, when you went to jail, you showed me true strength in the spirit. I wanted to rescue you from that wretched place, but I couldn't. I thought I failed. Despite the nightmare that it was, you still say it happened for a reason. You still smiled.

It made me realize that I can't take you for granted. Since then, I've been trying to do better at making sure you know without a doubt that you're my angel. I'm still learning how to be more open. But that is my mission: To take you beyond where we've been, and mark my words in the depths of your soul. You may not know how much I adore you, but I will to spend the rest of my days showing you love in the language you understand. As a man. As your man.

It has been two hours now since I left the house. Time truly flies, as we both know. I appreciate you following up with the exterminator. At first, I didn’t think we needed one. I thought I could handle the bug problem in the house by myself (Beware of superhero complex). But to be honest, I knew there would be bugs I couldn't catch or didn't see.

In the same way, I know there will be other types of bugs that try to creep into our marriage, both seen and unseen. I understand that we don’t have the power or the tools to get rid of these things alone. There will be times when we have no choice but to humble ourselves and call on the Lord above (according to His resume, He has tons of extermination experience), then have faith that He'll restore us.

It's Friday afternoon and I admit, it feels good to be outside the house right now. I know the place probably reeks of pest control products and chemicals. I needed the fresh air anyway. When I'm in the zone, I tend to get so caught up in my box that the world goes round without me. You know how I am. That's why I thank God for you.

You remind me to be still and take a deep breath. You inspire me to live each day as if it's our last. You, my darling, are a divine work of art, and together, we're a masterpiece-in-progress. Thank you for helping me see the big picture, in light of my narrow-minded lens.

We have been married for 100 days. I can't say what the next 100 days will look like, let alone the rest of our lives. I can't even say what tomorrow will hold, but know that I am holding onto your heart for dear life. I look forward to spending forever with you. I look forward to showing you love in ways you've never seen or felt. I look forward to becoming a better man with you, for you.

And with God leading the way in truth, you and I can overcome anything that lies before us. As long as we communicate -- and remember to breathe.

Love,

Russell

Day 99: Inauguration Day

(image by Prince Roy)

I wonder what Barack Obama was thinking on that wintry day eight months ago, as he stood on the National Mall in front of millions and became the 44th president of the United States.

What was going through his mind after he finished swearing in with "So help me God"? Did he realize the magnitude of the moment? Did he have any idea what he was getting himself into? I doubt it. As smart as the man may be, there is no way he could predict his first 100 days in office, let alone his first four years.

All the planning in the world couldn't prepare him for what was to come: the political shenanigans, the public complaints, the death threats. Not to mention the fact that he has the weight of the free world on his shoulders and he still has to be the man to his wife and daughters.

But I wonder if Obama has moments when he feels like he's failing, those times when he thinks he's not living up to the people's expectations. When he looks back over the past eight months, would he say he's done a good job?

I ask these questions because I see my wedding ceremony as my inauguration. One hundred days ago, on a summery day in St. Lucia, I stood with Asia on a private beach and became a married man. I was at peace. I knew I was making the right move.

Now, looking back, there is no way I could have predicted any of my first 99 days. I had no idea what I was in for. In this marriage, I've already had those moments when I felt like I was failing, times when I thought I wasn't living up to my wife's expectations.

This all brings me to my deeply buried lede: It's a thin line between love and politics.

Which means Obama and I are basically the same dude. Wait, hear me out. No I'm not running the country per se, but as the head of the house, my days do revolve around trying to make decisions in the best interest of the one who chose me: my wife.

And when you think about it, isn't the whole singles dating scene like one big political convention? You go out, mix and mingle, and learn what you like. Everybody has an agenda. You pour over platforms, discuss future plans and examine various viewpoints from people who claim they can give you a better tomorrow.

All the while, you're trying to figure out who you should support, which candidate you want to ride for, if any. You wait to find the one who will make you scream out “yes we can,” that one who will have you making T-shirts, rocking buttons, buying bumper stickers and going door to door to declare that you’re no longer undecided.

On May 13, 2009, Asia voted for me. She chose me to lead our household, in a sense, the same way we, the people, chose Obama to lead this nation. Now, for me, every day is a day of learning how to communicate and compromise. Every day I try to do better than the day before. I know Asia will have those moments when she’s wondering what she was thinking when she married me. (“After going to sleep on his wife, Russell’s approval ratings are down today.”) It’s only natural. That’s her right as a wife/voter/woman with a voice.

[SIDEBAR]
Even though, sometimes, my wife takes that whole “I have a voice and I will be heard” idea a little too literally. SMH.
[END SIDEBAR]

But, my fellow Americans and global citizens at large, I believe I have found the key to this political arena called marriage. Putting all pride aside, being a husband really comes down to one simple philosophy, spoken by President John F. Kennedy on his Inauguration Day in 1961, and remixed by yours truly in 2009:

Ask not what your woman can do for you. Ask what you can do for your woman.

On that private beach in St. Lucia, I declared my vows. I made a commitment. I was “sworn in” as a husband. Now I have 99 days down and forever to go. So help me God.

Day 98: Stronger Than Fiction

(image by Lucius Kwok)

At its heart, "District 9" is a love story.

It's a love story that is woven tightly through the science fiction tale about an alien community segregated in South Africa, and winds through the apartheid allegory, the action set pieces and the special effects that made the aliens look almost real. Cut through the noise and you will see a story about a man who loves a woman no matter what happens, a fact that gets hammered home in the film's haunting final image.

And on that level, I can relate.

My wife and I just left the movie theater and we're still piecing it all together. After yesterday's downward spiral, I suddenly feel inspired. This is the kind of movie I would want to write -- a movie that transcends its running time and follows you home.

I appreciate that Asia and I both have love for science fiction. (By the way, I made a good choice with "Let The Right One In" last night. I think this Flick Pick idea just might be genius.) Driving home, we discuss various scenes in "District 9," and of course Asia starts asking me her trademark "what if" questions.

"Babe would you still want to be with me if I was an alien?" she asks.

(Uh, do you wanna tell her? Or should I?)

"I doubt it," I say.

I kid, I kid. But her question does get me thinking. The idea of men and women coming from two different planets and speaking different languages has been around for a long time. The Mars and Venus guy made a grip writing about it. We all enter relationships with our own ideas, our own traditions, our own ways of life. And when somebody -- an outsider -- threatens that lifestyle, we react.

So the question in relationships, and in the movie, is basically the same: Can two beings with different backgrounds truly co-exist?

This Friday, I will have been a married man for 100 days. Already. In retrospect, this has been a journey, to say the least. I'm thinking back on all the ups and the downs, the good and bad times, the petty fights forgotten by morning, the crazy situations beyond our control. But, in this brief moment where I have time to catch my breath, I can see the big picture.

I see that being married is more than what I do or don't do; marriage is a mentality, a mindset that keeps evolving over time and transforming me into something new, something I've never seen before. All the while Asia's transforming as well, never fully finished but ever-forming. Marriage is about growth.

It's crucial that we grow together. Or else we'll grow apart.

I believe this is where relationships fail -- when two people put all their faith in feelings. Because feelings rise and fall. Untended, they can fade away. If that happens, you can look at someone you've been with for years and not recognize them. You see something so unfamiliar that it starts to look hideous. You claim you've fallen out of love. You alienate yourself.

But in love, like in life, the only constant is change. It's no use trying to lock love down because God is love and God cannot be contained. Yet and still, we try. We categorize and put ideas in boxes and restrict ourselves to our comfort zones. We hold onto what we know, and keep away from the unknown -- until we have no choice but to face it.

The protagonist in "District 9" experiences the unknown firsthand. And it's not pretty. But it was necessary for him to grow. It rang true for me. In the same way that I fight to protect who I am in this marriage, this wife of mine has been changing me, helping me understand that I can still be who I am in the context of this new shared experience.

Oddly enough, I'm finding some of her ways rubbing off on me (and vice versa). I catch myself telling people that "everything happens for a reason" and being more open and monologuing like I am now. Indeed, I'm the same man, but I'm adjusting to this new world, as I must do if I hope to survive. At first I was resistant. I wanted her to Keep Out. At times I still am and still do. But I understand the process. Even though it's painful.

The past three months, my wife and I have stood hand in hand, staring down the barrel of reality. No set pieces, no special effects, no director yelling "cut!" when the scenes went off the script. Just real life, with all its sharp turns, sudden changes of pace and noise. But at its heart, mine is too an age-old narrative about a man who will love his woman no matter what happens. True story.

But anyway, to make the long story short (too late), I thought "District 9" was a really good movie.

Day 97: No Mouth, Must Scream

(image by 4rank)

It's been nearly eight months since I started working at this magazine job, and now the numbness is starting to kick in, the cubicle walls closing in on me.

I don't know why this happens: With every office job I've had, I always find myself running on empty after being there for six to nine months. I find myself feeling restless, unsettled, swirling around the drain of insanity.

I'm sitting at my desk now, going through the motions. My fingers tap dance across computer keys. Words form sentences on the computer screen. But my mind has left the building. I'm thinking about life, and what it all means.

I can't seem to lift this heaviness that's come over me. I've been through a lot in the past few months, but I don't have anything to show for it. Every day I'm asking myself the same questions: Who am I? What is my purpose? And what's up with airplane food anyway?

Cue the quarterlife crisis.

I don't know why I didn't recognize it before. The symptoms were there: insomnia mixed with exhaustion, random irritability, chronic officitis. Supposedly, major transitions create these crisis state moments. Getting married, of course, would fall under the category of a major transition. But I don't think that's the root of my issue. In fact, this marriage has been the only thing keeping me stable, at least lately.

Beyond the marriage, I am lost. It's the things that I can't control that now control my train of thought: The fact that I have no car, and my credit is bad, and it doesn't look like we'll be able to buy a house this year after all. (Silver lining: The joint account is working out just fine.)

The thing is, I feel like I'm on the verge of something. I can't see what it is yet. For the past few weeks, I've been working on this treatment for a reality show idea. I've also been working on movie scripts. I work hard. And I will keep working hard. But does that even matter?

Ideally, I would be traveling the globe with my wife, writing screenplays for a living, science fiction mostly. That would be the life. But instead, I'm here in this office, going through the motions just to pay the bills.

And then I feel guilty. Last year, when my freelancing business started going down, and I had a wedding coming up, I prayed and God blessed me with this job in January. So how can I even think to complain? Especially when people are getting laid off left and right.

I understand that where I am right now is only temporary, a rest stop en route to my dreams. But I've never been good at waiting; I couldn't even be patient in a doctor's office. (See what I did there?) Still, I have no choice but to be.

It's no accident that God gave me an extroverted woman for a wife. In the past, when I would have these "woe is me" episodes, I would isolate myself, shut the world out and hibernate until my winter ended. I would write a lot, and I didn't talk to anybody. I could get away with that when I was single, but as a married man, not so much.

Now, when I want to suffer in solitude, I have to do things like go to see her family, as was the case Sunday. Or she'll want to cuddle, as is the case every day. But I thank God for this woman because she radiates, which makes it difficult for a man to hide in the dark. Her energy forces me out of what's familiar, and I hate that at the time, but appreciate it later.

That's what happened tonight. I came home from work and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and cover up my confusion with sleep. But my wife had other plans.

She's telling me about her new idea for us to choose what movies we watch. She wrote down a list of genres, cut and folded them and put them in a plastic bag. How it works is that one of us will pick a genre out of the bag, then select two movies in that genre. The other person will then select one of the two options, and that's what we'll watch. Flick Pick, she calls it.

I know this is probably her undercover way to force me to watch those dumb horror movies. But it's a dope idea nonetheless.

[SIDEBAR]
Creativity = Sexy
[END SIDEBAR]

It's almost 10 p.m. Asia's finishing up dinner in the kitchen. I'm lying on the floor with the laptop.

"You ready to pick your movie?" she asks, bouncing over to me with the plastic bag.

I'm first up. I guess a movie would do me some good right now; I need to escape. I reach into the bag. I better pick sci-fi. Please pick sci-fi.

"No peeking," Asia says. "You can't see can you?"

I shake my head. I can't see through the folded papers, and even if I could, I wouldn't need to. After nearly losing my mind today, I know karma's coming around to give me a break.

After moving my hand around for a few seconds, I pull out the white paper. This is it.

I unfold it slowly. I look at the word on the paper, my wife's handwriting in blue marker ...

Horror. Story of my life.

Day 96: Submission Wrestling

(image by twdhf)

In my hands is a large manila envelope with five giant stamps and no return address.

It's Monday. Again. I'm at home and I've been working since about 9 a.m. It's almost 4:30 in the afternoon now. Asia went to work two hours ago, and I just stepped outside for a second to get the mail.

Back in the kitchen, I flipped through the stack, hoping that a random freelance check that I forgot about would fall out like a subscription card in a magazine. But all I saw were insurance bills, utility bills and couch ads -- garbage, garbage and garbage.

But then I saw the envelope that I'm holding now. What in the world is this? It's addressed to me and Asia with a special services sticker and U.S.A. in our address. Wait a minute ... is this it? I take a closer look at the stamps to find my answer: It's from St. Lucia. After three months and some-odd days, our wedding certificate has finally arrived.

I decide not to open it. I know Asia's been waiting a long time for this to come. So I'll let her have her moment when she gets home from work at midnight.

Why does this matter? Not only does it let us know that the whole escape to St. Lucia adventure actually happened, but without this document, Asia could not legally change her last name.

The last name debate goes way back. We hadn't really brought it up since that early conversation. But I knew the subject would sprout up again once the certificate came.

Back then, Asia had all these reservations about changing her last name, saying she's had it all her life and whatnot. o_O I didn't feel her on that one. In my mind, it was just one of those automatic things: Women get married, change their last names, no questions asked.

Now, almost 100 days in, I understand where she was coming from. I'm not saying she shouldn't change her last name. But I can, on some level, relate to her reluctance.

Ever since we got married in St. Lucia, I've been holding on for dear life to my independence. With each passing day, I felt like I was losing myself in this marriage, and the custom-made "Russell" was getting made over into a generic store-brand product called "husband".

I felt like I was losing control and freedom and the things that made me who I am. I see now that Asia was saying the same thing about her name. She wasn't dead-set against changing it, but she was only telling me that it wasn't easy to give up that part of who she is. I didn't listen.

"You don't understand," she said in our earlier discussion. "Men don't have to give up anything. Women have to give up their last names, their bodies during pregnancy. Everything."

That's valid. (Although I can't say I agree that men don't have to give up anything; it's just not as tangible.) Not to get it confused. I am still not hyphenating my name. But this isn't really about her changing her name as much as it's about me changing my understanding of her submission.

I'm learning that submission, like love, is a choice. Not an obligation. Not a right that automatically kicks in once you land on the other side of the broom. But the concept has been so distorted over time that some men wield the 10-letter word like a weapon to abuse women. They spit out scriptures and try to control their wives, forgetting the fact that true submission comes not from a man's commands, but from a woman's voluntary actions.

I honestly believe that most women want to submit to their husbands. They want him to be the head of the house. They want him to be the man. But when a man isn't showing selfless love to his wife, she struggles to submit.

Can I honestly say I've been a husband worth submitting to? Have I been showing my wife selfless love and honoring her freedom of choice? Not completely. I'm working on it. These things take time. Also, above all else, I need to submit myself to God.

The Bible says husbands are called to love their wives as Christ loved the church. If ever there was a lifetime commitment ... Oh, but there is. On May 13, 2009 in St. Lucia, Asia and I made one. And now, three months and some-odd days later, we have the signed paperwork to prove it.

Day 95: Memory Lane

(image by djking)

I can't remember the last time I was getting beat this badly.

Oh, that's right. It never happened.

I'm at a bowling alley in Vallejo with my wife, some of her family and friends. There's seven of us. It's the 4th Frame. And with only 31 points, I'm in dead last place.

They're talking about me, telling me I'm out of my league. After all the trash I talk, I can't be mad at that. I just better find a way to come back. I hate losing.

Earlier this afternoon, Asia and I drove down to Vallejo for a family dinner at her aunt's house. Depending on traffic, it's about an hour away from where we live. I wasn't trying to be there for a long time. We both had to go to work the next day.

At the house, we feasted on barbecue chicken, ribs, potato salad, macaroni salad and beans. We stayed there until about 9:30 p.m. After packing some leftover plates and dropping Asia's mom off at her house, we drove to the bowling alley up the street. Asia's sister had invited us there for a going-away-party type of deal for a friend who's moving to Atlanta tomorrow.

I thought it was a dope idea. I was in a winning mood anyway, and it also gave me a chance to check out my old stomping grounds.

Back in high school, this particular bowling alley was the place to be on Saturdays. On those nights, the overhead lights would go down and bright lasers flashed. Music blasted. The place was packed. Nothing but a bunch of rowdy teenagers with their bowling balls, like their minds, in the gutter. We lived for those nights. And whenever a fight broke out and the police shut it down and kicked us all out early, it felt like the world ended. But we knew next week, we'd be back.

But this place means more than that to me. Indeed, this bowling alley and I have a personal history.

What we gon' do right here is go back. Way back. Back into time.

December 1999. My parents just divorced, and my dad moved to Vallejo. I had just transferred to a new high school there.

Christmas break was a week away when I met Asia for the first time. She was a sophomore, and she grew up in Vallejo so she knew everybody. As the new boy on the block, I hardly knew anybody. But when I saw Asia, I knew she was somebody I wanted to get to know.

After school one afternoon, I passed Asia a note with a message and my pager number on it. She paged me that night. I called her back. And for nights to follow, we stayed up for hours talking on the phone until one of our cordless batteries died. I wanted to make her mine. And I was not going to lose.

At the start of 2000, I spent the first three months living with mom back in Richmond, which meant I didn't get to see Asia that much outside of school. But every Saturday night, we met up at the bowling alley. It was our spot: In February, this is where I kissed her for the first time. Then in April, this is where I asked her to be my girlfriend.

Standing here now, it feels like that was another life. Granted it is a Sunday, but this place doesn't feel familiar. The overhead lights are all on and glaringly bright. Aside from our group, there's only five other people bowling in the whole alley. And there's no music. (It used to be free to request a song, but now they're charging $1 per song. They must've lost their minds on Lane 16 if they think I'm coming out the pocket for that.)

But above all that, the main reason I'm convinced this is some alternate reality is that I'm losing. In high school, I ran these lanes. Nobody could touch me. I was Mr. 300, the King Pin...

"Oh, nice try babe," I hear Asia call out behind me.

I'm standing in front of the Lane 21 now. It's the 5th Frame and I just knocked down 7 pins in my first roll. I haven't gotten a strike or a spare yet. I don't know what's up with me. My bowling average is 165. I mean, I know I haven't bowled in a while, but 31 in the 4th Frame? This hurts my feelings.

At least, let me pick up this spare and get back into this thing. Maybe I'm using the wrong ball. I try a different one and step up to the line. I've done this a million times before (two million if you count the Wii). Just roll the ball down the lane. Three pins. All I need.

I take a step forward, in rhythm, swing my arm back, then forward. And let the ball go ... 2. That brings my score up to 40. This sport is stupid. Who invented bowling anyway?

Asia's up next on the opposite lane. She's been doing her thing. She already got a spare in the 2nd Frame, and she has 39 right now.

She picks up her ball, aims and fires. She bowls a 9, then picks up the spare. I need some of that mojo, STAT! My fate will be sealed in five more frames. Don't panic. Think positive.

I. Will. Not. Lose.

"I'm about to come back on all y'all," I declare to the group.

They laugh.

"It's too late in the game for that," a friend quips.

I sit down, my stomach knotting up. I hate losing. Asia's sitting next to me, trying her hardest not to laugh.

"Don't worry babe," she says. "I believe you."

But all the laughs disappear the next frame when I bowl a strike. I don't say anything. The high-point man has 73 right now. I know I will need a few more marks to pull this off. I manage to get a spare on my next turn.

By the 8th Frame, I'm back in the game -- in second place with 88 points. The high-point man has 90. Do or die time.

Two frames later, I claim victory with 125, at least 20 points more than everybody that scoffed at me and said it couldn't be done. I guess I got my swagger back. Asia ended up with 100, beating out the other women. What can I say? Winning is what we do.

"Victory is ours," I say to her.

It's so crazy that nine years ago, I was here in this bowling alley, kissing a girl that would turn out to be my wife. It just goes to show that the Lord works in mysterious ways, and I never really know how this game called life will play out. All I can ever do is take things one frame at a time -- and know in my heart that I've already won.

It's 11 p.m. when Asia and I leave the bowling alley. It was good to be there again, to reminisce, to see the place where our journey began. But now it's time to hit the road. We've got a long drive ahead of us.

Day 94: Computer Love

(image by TalkingTree)

My wife of three months thinks I need to go to rehab.

I keep telling her it's not that serious, but she doesn't believe me.

"The first sign of Internet addiction is denial," she told me.

"I'm not denying anything," I said as I lied on the living room floor with the laptop. "I would tell you if I was addicted."

Granted, it might not have sounded like the most convincing statement. And the fact that I'm awake at 2 o'clock in the morning, scouring these Internets definitely doesn't help my case. But who is she to judge me? She's just as awake as I am, sitting in front of the desktop computer as we speak, pestering me with questions from an Internet addiction quiz that she just found online. Oh, for the love of irony.

But the more we debate about my so-called denial, the deeper the rabbit hole goes. I'm about to find out that Asia has an issue not so much with what I'm doing online, but with whom I might be I'm doing it with -- specifically, other women.

I am a writer. Which means my computer is like my second heart. I will admit that sometimes I work on my scripts or stay online for longer periods than I planned. Whether I'm in the zone, or staring at a blank screen, waiting for inspiration to strike, minutes turn to hours turn to evenings, which sometimes turn into mornings. This is the life that chose me.

I thought Asia understood that. But for whatever reason -- maybe the lack of sleep, the stress from school, or just simply that curious hormone called estrogen -- she suddenly seems to have a problem with my work habit.

She's asking me these questions on the Internet addiction quiz, but I know my wife well enough to recognize her doublespeak. So I ask her straight up if she has a problem with me being online. Her mouth says no, but her eyes say, "What do you think?" So I ask her again.

"It just..." she struggles to find the words.

I wait for her to finish. I don't want to fill in her sentences with my own hypotheses.

"It just doesn't look right," Asia says finally. "Like if you're sending e-mails at 2:30 in the morning, people will be wondering why you're not with your wife."

"Who cares about people?" I say. "And it's not like they're reading the e-mail as soon as I send them anyway. They won't even see it until the next morning."

"But they can see the time you sent it."

"Who does all that?"

"Trust me," Asia says. "People do that."

"You're talking about women or what?"

"Whoever."

Which means "women."

There was a time when I would have felt a certain way about this whole episode. I would have felt like Asia was trying to dictate what I do or change who I am. Like she was stripping another layer of my independence. My pride would have kicked in, the walls would gone up and the battle would have been on.

But, at least right now, Jericho has left the building. Truth be told, I just want to understand where she's coming from.

I can't get behind the whole "it doesn't look right" idea. People will have their opinions regardless. But if I'm handling my business and got her feeling good, who cares what anybody on the outside is talking about?

But, if she's saying I'm not handling business and this is all some kind of veiled plea for attention, then let's talk about that. I don't really know how it could be that. I make time for her. I make sure I'm taking care of her needs on a regular. And I'm smart enough to know not to ever bring the laptop to bed.

And what's this nonsense about other women? I don't know who or what she's talking about. She's acting like I got a Second Life boo on the side.

Indeed, sometimes I send e-mails or Twitter updates out at random hours of the night. But I'm not really looking at who's male and female. When an idea comes to me, I want to write it down and send it on immediately. Sometimes that idea will come during traditional office hours, and sometimes it'll be a nontraditional hours. In any case, I've been straight up about everything with Asia whenever she asks.

But still, my wife seems to be convinced that I'm in the wrong.

[SIDEBAR]
I'm starting to realize that a man truly doesn't stand a chance against a Woman Who's Convinced. No matter what we do or say, it will always be wrong and we will lose. Chuck Norris ain't got nothing on a WWC.
[END SIDEBAR]

My wife and I have been going back and forth for a while when I stop pleading my case and ask the obvious question: "Do you want me to get off the computer?"

"No, do you," she says. "I was just making an observation."

"Well you clearly have a problem with it," I tell her, "so if you want me to get off the computer, just tell me."

She's quiet for a moment. Then says, "I don't want to tell you what to do."

Alas, the fork in the road. I can either use her silence as an excuse to keep doing what I do, or I can see past her shrug and give in to what she's asking without asking.

At that moment, my mind flashes back to some words of wisdom from a long time ago (read: less than three months, but it feels like forever). This was back when I had a side gig, making deliveries to offices downtown. Not long before that job ended, my employer at the time gave me some grown man advice on how to handle marital disputes. He said any issue between a couple could be solved by asking one simple question: "How important is this to you?"

I never forgot those words, but every time I knew I should say them, I couldn't do it. My pride wouldn't let me.

I looking at my wife now, and the words still aren't coming out of my mouth. But this time, it's not because of my pride. I'm not asking the question because I don't need to. I already know the answer. So I make a decision.

"Look, how about we do this," I say. "I will put a time limit on myself. From now on, I will not send any messages past 11 at night. How's that?"

The side of her mouth curls into a smile and she nods. With that, I close the laptop and we go upstairs to the bedroom.

I still can't say I understand her issue completely, but it doesn't really matter. I did what I had to do as a man, as a husband and as a writer who's not in denial about my non-addiction.