If you’ve been married for as long as I have (53 years), you pick up a few domestic skills that don’t show up on any resume. I’m talking about advanced diplomacy, strategic listening, and the ability to locate the television remote without making eye contact with the person who knows you’re about to sit down.
But the crown jewel—the survival skill that keeps the peace, lowers the blood pressure, and prevents a cold war over casserole dishes—is knowing when not to argue.
This awareness did not arrive in a single bolt of wisdom. It came in installments, like a kitchen renovation: loud, expensive, and filled with moments where you swear you’ll ‘never do that again.’
In the early years of ‘wedded bliss’, I labored under the mistaken assumption that marital arguments were like debates—two rational adults presenting evidence, arriving at a logical conclusion, and then shaking hands as the audience applauded.
That is so adorable. It’s also not how it works when the topic is “the correct way to load the dishwasher,” a field in which my spouse holds three advanced degrees and I am still auditing the introductory course.
After 53 years, I’ve developed a simple decision tree for household disagreements. Step one: ask yourself, “Will this matter in five years?” If the answer is no, proceed directly to Step two: “Will this matter in five minutes?” If the answer is also no, congratulations—you have discovered a perfect opportunity to nod, smile, and live to see another sunrise. Step three is only for the truly brave: “Is this a hill I want to be buried on, and will my spouse help with the digging?”
There are several classic “do not engage” situations. One is the Historical Reenactment, when you casually mention, “I thought we agreed…” and your spouse replies, “Oh, we’re doing that now, are we?” Suddenly you’re not arguing about today’s calendar; you’re on trial for something you said in 1994, and the prosecution has visual aids to support the case.
Another is the Budget Mirage, where you point out that a purchase might be “a little pricey,” and are reminded that you once bought a gadget that “seemed useful” and is currently holding up a wobbly table leg. The third is the Decorating Doctrine, which begins with, “Where should we put this?” and ends with you realizing there are only two correct answers: “Wherever you think,” and “That looks perfect.”
To help the younger crowd, I offer a few rules of non‑combat, which I had to learn the hard way. First: if your spouse is holding a spoon, a frying pan, or a freshly printed return receipt, you are not in a debate—you are in a training exercise.
Second: never start an argument when you’re hungry. “Hangry” is not an emotion; it’s a meteorological event that ruins the whole region.
Third: don’t correct small details. Yes, you may remember the neighbor’s dog’s name and the exact date of that vacation, but no marriage has ever been saved by the sentence, “Actually…”
The goal, after all, isn’t to “win.” The goal is to keep the home peaceful enough that nobody starts communicating through slammed cabinet doors. In a long marriage, you learn that being right is overrated, but being kind is priceless—and being quiet at the appropriate time is basically a superpower.
So when you feel the urge to argue, take a breath, consider the stakes, and remember the ancient marital proverb: you can be right, or you can be happy. Choose wisely. I’ve managed 53 years by choosing happy… and by occasionally pretending I didn’t hear the question. | NWI
