My Valentine’s Day experiment: I didn’t talk about myself for 24 hours

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Thirteen years ago, on Feb. 14, my wife, Vicky, and I pledged our love forever. I thought that pledge meant we’d always be there to listen.

Years later, on a different Valentine’s Day, I called Vicky in the middle of the day while she was having lunch at a restaurant alone. I told her I wanted to talk about something important. I was on the verge of figuring out the theme of my memoir, which also meant the theme of my life (our life), which I’d been working on as long as we’d been together. Vicky asked questions and my ideas started flowing; like when you feel totally caffeinated and clearheaded; like when you feel like you can solve the world’s problems. I was reaching my stride, just at the edge… when she said, “I gotta go. My soup’s here. I need two hands.”

I hung up dejected. We’d built a life, had two kids, but this happened so often. I was mad and heartbroken and, frankly, scared. I wanted a partner who could listen.

I called my mom and said, “What kind of animal uses two hands to eat soup?”

She said, “Be nice to Vicky. She’s got a lot on her mind. Maybe you should shut it.”

I was shocked but curious, because my mom had a point. Vicky’s a financial planner. She spends her days taking care of people. Maybe Vicky literally can’t take in another word. Maybe I talk too much.

Valentine’s Day was humiliating for me as a child. I tell my students about it every year.

I got an idea to give myself a secret challenge: 48 hours without talking about myself. I wouldn’t initiate conversation or use the word “I,” starting as soon as Vicky walked in the door. Before she got home, I reduced my sentence to 24 hours.

Vicky and I had a date to see a friend’s play downtown. On our way out, I kissed the kids and said what I’d rehearsed in the shower: “Bye, y’all. You are loved.”

In the car, Vicky said, “I had a crazy day.”

She gave me a detailed report: “Saw two clients, the third one canceled last-minute, oil collapsed, the Dow went down 1,000 points.”

Everything she said made me think of my own stuff. But I didn’t say, “Me, too, crazy day,” or anything about how hurt I felt when she got off the phone to eat her soup with two hands.

Not talking about myself required concentration.

This restaurant is run by grandmothers. Customers clap for them each night.

We got downtown with only an hour before the play. Vicky said, “Where should we eat?”

I mentioned a new cafe that was offering free hors d’oeuvres. She told me she couldn’t sit through a play on only celery sticks.

“What are you trying to do, put me on a diet?” she said. “You married a big woman.”

I said, “Where do you want to go?”

“I want a real meal,” she said. “I’m starving.”

Then she said, “I don’t care about that play. This is a social obligation and I’m just being dragged along.”

We spotted a Hilton, ran in and found the bar. Vicky ordered a chicken Caesar. I said, “Same.”

The food came and slowly Vicky recovered from her sugar low or whatever it was. A TV at the bar flashed the queen of Jordan.

Apparently, Vicky knows a lot about the queen. I asked questions. Vicky told me where the queen went to school (the American University in Cairo), where she worked (Citibank and Apple), that she doesn’t believe women should be forced to wear the hijab, and that she’s an advocate for cross-cultural dialogue.

While Vicky went on and on, I thought about how much she loves to tell me stuff, how she loves to be listened to; how everyone loves to be listened to. And then I thought how insightful I was to have such an insight.

By that point, my face hurt from smiling. I was dying to contribute to the conversation. Every thought felt so urgent and important. In the space of ordering and getting our meal, I wanted to initiate conversation 22 times.

Sardines are too salty. I mean anchovies. I need a toothpick. When did I become addicted to toothpicks? My grandpa always had a toothpick between his lips. Do they still make wooden toothpicks? I think I’d like to be queen. Maybe not. Too much work.

I had so many thoughts, even I was getting sick of myself.

When I got the urge to tell Vicky what happened when I went to the bathroom, I mentally snapped: Oh MY GOD. I’m Charlie Brown’s teacher. Wah, wah, wah, wah. No wonder Vicky’s gone deaf to me.

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We made it to the play on time. I was looking forward to a long stretch of quiet, but the play turned out to be a one-act and we were out in 10 minutes. Since we were in our 40s and married, we went straight home. I hit the pillow with 21 hours to go.

In the morning, Vicky said, “I’m sorry about last night. I was hungry and crazy and you were so sweet.”

She was so sincere and loving and suddenly I felt dishonest. Trying not to talk about me was all about me.

I made a T sign with my hands. “Time out,” I said. “I’m doing an experiment where I can’t talk about myself for 24 hours so I couldn’t defend myself.”

I waited for a reaction. Did she feel deceived? Was she mad?

Vicky smiled so big, the pretty lines sank in around her eyes. She said, “I loved how you handled me. Thank you for doing that for us. Every couple should do this experiment!”

Now, when I’m feeling distant or when I think Vicky’s not paying attention, I take a secret pledge and put in a few hours of listening. Because showing love sometimes means shutting up.