Marriage is all about compromise. We were reminded of this not long ago, when our old TV died. We had nursed it into its teen years, not so much because we liked the station-wagon wood-grain siding or the blurry picture, but because we wanted to avoid the marital stress of buying a replacement.
Given our divergent feelings about spending money, we knew we’d have to shop together. If I went alone, my check-writing hand would seize up, and I’d come home with a portable black-and-white set with a screen so small we’d need binoculars to watch it. If Mark went alone, he’d come home with a model the size of the living room wall, and we’d have to sit in the driveway too see it clearly.
I admit I’m frugal, but I’m not “tighter than bark to a tree,” as Mark would say. I just like to make sure that, if we must part with our money, we get the best value for the price. As a consequence, it takes me a long time—11 years and counting, in the case of my blender—to make a purchase decision.
But Mark loves to buy stuff. He thinks the more we spend, the happier we’ll be. I’ve pointed out that you rarely see people laughing it up in bankruptcy court, but he just says I don’t understand capitalism.
He never walks empty-handed out of a store (or a car showroom, for that matter). Once he crosses the threshold, he’ll keep buying until his purchases alone rocket the sales associate to Employee of the Month.
I feel no such obligation. I’m a defensive shopper. I plan ahead for weeks so I know what I want as soon as I walk into the store. I make the purchase quickly (to minimize the pain) and retreat before the salesperson can talk about accessory packages and extended warranties.
As I expected, when we got to the TV showroom, Mark’s eyes quickly skittered past the normal, human-scale TVs and locked onto the flat-panel and rear-projection babies at the far end of the room.
“I like those,” he mumbled, staggering off toward the flashing screens.
Not me. I kept my eyes on the paper in my hand, on which I had written the brand name and model number of a Consumer Reports “Best Buy.” I’m sure the young salesman knew his best prospects lay with my drooling spouse, whom we watched in the distance rubbing his cheek against the side of a 61-inch plasma-screen model. But I planned on doing the talking.
The salesman didn’t need to dazzle me with a spiel about high-definition digital quality, flat-screen technology, and larger screen sizes. I told him what I wanted, and he led me to it. In ten seconds, I had the deal just about I wrapped up.
Then Mark drifted over to us, stopping short in front of a beautiful, very large Sony currently showing a blockbuster movie.
“Ah,” the salesman said, “It’s quite something, isn’t it?” He launched into a litany of this particular TV’s attributes, from the pixel resolution to the digital advances that raised this model above all others.
My husband never took his eyes off the screen. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I’ve never seen Lord of the Rings.”
Stepping in front of Frodo, I broke Mark’s gaze. I pointed over to the TV I had chosen, the one that fit our needs, our budget, and our living room. Although it cost far more than I wanted to pay, it was far less than the model Mark had his eye on.
“But I want this one,” he said, hugging the sleek silver Sony. He stroked its four-figure price tag.
Seeing that his eyes had grown bigger than his wallet, I resorted to the one thing I knew would get his attention. I put my arms around his neck and softly whispered a few words in his ear. Almost immediately, his eyes focused and he nodded quickly.
“I changed my mind,” he said to the salesman. “We’ll take the one my wife picked out.” The young man blushed as he headed for the warehouse.
Maybe I wasn’t playing fair. But sometimes, to get through to your man, you have to use what really turns him on.
For me, the magic words were simply: “If we get the TV you want, you won’t have any money left for hunting gear.”
Behold the art of compromise.
