Man holding flowers towards someone.
This month, Aaron Traister pledged to transform himself into the man his wife deserves: thoughtful, physically fit, and sexually patient. She got two out of three — not bad!
During a recent argument, my wife, Karel, told me I needed to "grow up," so I thought I'd give it a shot. I'd spend four weeks making myself over, and I wouldn't tell Karel, just to see if she was paying attention. Among other things, I changed up my clothes and returned to my teenage wrestling workouts — because nothing says maturity like playing dress-up and trying desperately to relive high school. Here's the whole rundown.
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I bought her flowers.
When Karel and I started dating, I was a bouncer at a bar in New
York City. After every shift, I'd grab daisies (her favorite)
from a 24-hour bodega near the bar so Karel would wake up to fresh
flowers in the morning. I gradually slacked off, blaming it on the
fact that our cat loves knocking things like flower vases over. But
I know that's a lame excuse. So I started buying Karel flowers
again and kept a close eye on our chaos-loving cat. I put the first
bouquet on the dining room table in our "fancy vase," and
Karel noticed immediately. She couldn't stop talking about it
and kept asking me what she'd done to deserve random flowers.
Clearly, this needs to happen more often.
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I unplugged.
Karel and I hang out together every night, but I surf the Internet
while I'm sitting next to her, so she gives me static about
only being present physically. To be with her more completely, I
scaled back my Internet time and, in my mind, was very successful:
Instead of surfing mindlessly for two hours, I answered emails for
15 minutes. No dice for Karel, though. It irks her every time I
touch my laptop after the kids are in bed, and maybe she's
right to police my cyber habits. Next time I'll try no computer
at all after 5 p.m., but only if she quits BlackBerrying after work
too.
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I tried not to pounce on her.
Karel complains that I never let her initiate sex. She says I seize
every opportunity for action I see: a hug has to turn into sex;
folding laundry has to turn into sex; getting back from the vet has
to turn into sex. I don't let things develop
"organically" or let her make the first move and show me
how "sex-positive" she can be. So I took a step back. The
first week went well: I don't know if Karel noticed my
restraint, but she did take the lead. (And, by the way, organic sex
doesn't feel that different from conventional or processed
sex.)
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The trouble started in week two, when Karel announced she was cutting me off sexually until I finished a book proposal that should have been done a year ago. Of course, after that, I couldn't stop thinking about getting some, and the next thing I knew I was all over her, hoping to find a weak spot in the blockade. Ultimately, I finished the outline, at which point she immediately normalized relations between our two great nations. I've gotta tell you, I don't know if I learned anything from this one.
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I got in shape.
I haven't really worked out since I wrestled in high school, so
as part of my man makeover, I revived my ancient gym routine. Karel
noticed — mainly because I'd wake her up in the morning doing
jumping jacks and mountain climbers in the living room. I ran or
exercised for at least half an hour every day (except two) last
month. Karel complimented me on my rapidly improving physique, and
I discovered that my newfound core strength paid off in other
(ahem) areas of our life. But the biggest impact was on me alone: I
felt healthier, stronger, more alert, and just generally better.
Even if Karel hadn't noticed, I'd try to stick with this
one for me… and the better sex.
I dressed like an adult.
I wear lots of flannel, jeans, and thermals — I'm like a
refugee from a 1993 Alice in Chains concert. REDBOOK's fashion
director came to the rescue, sending me a box of crisp button-down
shirts, fashionably slim-cut pants that most guys would probably
wear on Casual Friday but for me counted as black-tie, and shoes
made of something leathery with pointy tips and a bit of a heel.
The fancy khakis and pointy shoes gave me away. I wore them into
the kitchen one morning, and Karel asked if I was going on a job
interview or appearing before a judge. She said I looked weird.
Then she squealed and pointed at my crotch. I swatted frantically
at myself to get whatever she was freaking out about off me. Then
she told me I had to change, and that I was not allowed to take the
kids outside wearing those pants.
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"But why?" I asked.
"First of all, you're too scruffy to wear clothes like that, and more importantly, if you go out in those pants, the neighbors will be able to tell that you're circumcised." Upon closer inspection, I discovered that she was terrifyingly correct. I immediately changed into a pair of baggy Levis. It felt good to be back in the '90s.
After the pants fiasco, I told Karel about my makeover project for this column. With the exception of the clothes, she seemed genuinely surprised that all my new habits were staged for an assignment — and after some reflection, I could see why. I'd been meaning to make all of these changes; I just hadn't gotten around to them. I know how lucky I am to have an amazing wife and kids, and I don't want to take them for granted by treating my body like crap and checking out early, or failing to show them how much they mean to me. I sent the clothes back to REDBOOK — they just don't fit, literally and figuratively. But I'm going to keep after the other improvements, the ones I've had percolating inside me for a while now, plans for the man I'd like to become.
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