The Surrendered Wife? . . . I Don't Think So



Flipping through the channels with the remote, we stopped out of curiosity. Curiosity quickly led to incredulity, followed in quick succession by disbelief and peals of laughter. My husband and I had landed on the evening news program, Dateline, stumbling into a segment about a new book and its author's approach to making your marriage perfect. Titled The Surrendered Wife, author Laura Doyle's solution to fixing your marriage is to simply throw up your hands, change your personality and let your husband be totally in charge . . . of everything . . . period. You and Ms. Doyle will now have to forgive me while I pause to laugh hysterically. . . again.



I laugh because were I to implement her program in my marriage, the only things that would be "surrendered" would be my family's way of life and my husband's respect for me -- oh yeah, let's not forget that my sanity would be waving the white flag in no time.



But just for the sake of the hypothetical, let's say I did try to follow her guidelines: Give up total control of everything. Allow my husband to make all decisions. Don't criticize a single thing he does. Allow my husband to have total control of the finances. Get yourselves a drink while I get this laughing under control . . . In the course of one month, here is what I predict would happen:



Week One: As I am not even allowed to decide what the children wear, they would all look like before/after shots in a Weight Watchers ad. The four year old wearing the eight year old's clothes, etc. Their hair, were I to abdicate my control over their follicles, would look more like they were styled by Vidal Buffoon, not Vidal Sassoon. Oh yes, I would begin to suffer severe inner convulsions as I choke back my "criticism".



Week Two: Since I am following her advice to completely abdicate control and trust him implicitly, one child will have now missed a field trip to the zoo (What permission slip?), another will have to make up three swim lessons (What schedule?), and the third will be chafing from wearing the same underwear since last Tuesday (What laundry?). And an aneurysm threatens to take out the left, or controlling, side of my brain.



Week Three: Following her guidelines, he coordinates an entire evening out for the two of us, including picking out my clothes. Now here I give him some credit, as the children are left in the care of our capable regular babysitter, he picks out a favorite restaurant, and presents me with a Hallmark card over dinner. All of this is overshadowed, however, by the fact I am wearing a lime green dress, navy blue panty hose and brown shoes. I know a stroke is imminent.



Articles Tools

Top