The Geriatric Language of Love 

“We are born crying, live complaining, and die disappointed.” – Thomas Fuller

You Just Don’t Understand was considered groundbreaking in its day. It was on the NYT bestseller list for nearly four years, eight months at #1, and was translated into 31 languages.

But in recent years, as you can imagine, it has been criticized for its unwokeness. A typical comment was made by someone named Alice Freed who grumbled that it “simultaneously perpetuates negative stereotypes of women, excuses men their interactive failings, and distorts by omission the accumulated knowledge of our discipline.”

As I said above, the book’s thesis is that, from childhood, boys and girls learn different approaches to language that result in communication problems when they get older.

One of those many problems concerns how and why men and women complain. Women, Tannen says, often complain to establish rapport and to seek understanding, which they get from other women. Men are generally reluctant to complain because they see it as an admission of failure. But when they do complain, they are generally asking for solutions. And that is exactly what they get when they complain to other men.

But when men and women complain to one another, things go awry. When women complain to men, men assume they are looking for answers. So, they give them answers – which is pretty much the opposite of what the women want.

There is a wonderful little video on this, which shows the dichotomy succinctly and hilariously:

Over the years, I’ve tried to remind myself that sometimes sympathies are more wanted than solutions. It’s not an easy thing to remember and a tougher thing to do. I try, but I’m thinking: “What bloody good is this nodding and comforting doing? I know the damn solution. Why can’t I just say it and save us both some precious time?!”

That was then. This is now.

As I reluctantly edge into my seventies, I’ve noticed a surprising change – at least in my personal life.

As my body descends ever so gradually into incapacity (on its way to dust), I find myself complaining to all who will listen about the many symptoms of this decrepitude that bother me so. I want to talk about my painful knees, my arthritic fingers and toes, the steady, almost daily, ebbing of physical and mental energy, etc.

My coevals seem to enjoy these conversations, too. And when we have our bitch fests, we do it like men. Each complainer is allowed about 2 minutes of whining for which he must endure about 10 minutes of mansplaining how his problems can be solved. And I’m fine with that. In fact, it’s quite good, because the various solutions offered are often contradictory, which offers an opportunity for a third stage of vigorous testosterone pumping or dumping debate.

But I’ve noticed that when I make these same complaints to K and she gives me much of the same advice (“Stop eating ice cream… Stop wrestling… Get more rest…” etc.), I am not pleased at all.

K’s advice is every bit as solid and sensible as the advice I get from my male friends. But I find that I don’t want it. I want what I used to believe only women want: words and gestures of sympathy, expressed with a bit of cooing and petting. Nothing less. And certainly nothing more.

I’m sure, if Deborah Tannen were my counselor, she’d tell me to simply explain what I want (need?) from K and that everything then would be alright.

In fact, I’ve tried that. But the conversations have usually gone like this:

Me: [Complaining…]

K: [Giving me advice…]

Me: “I know that. But I really just want…”

K: “Well, if you know what to do, then do it. Or stop complaining!”