Page 8 of The Close-Up
“I bet that’s exactly how your girlfriend feels. She has a job too, right?”
Miles nods.
“Having a job is baseline—you and everyone else who is ableshouldhave a job. To use that as a reason to be patted on the back is kind of ridiculous.”
Murmurs of agreement rumble in the background.
“I don’t say that to call you out, Miles. I say that to be as straightforward as possible. Because I get the feeling you’re a guy who doesn’t like to beat around the bush. You want to get straight to the point, right?”
Again, Miles nods. Simon asks him to recount what his girlfriend does for him. She cooks dinner every night, keeps a schedule of all their social activities and appointments during the week, plans vacations, remembers important family events for both of them, and takes care of most of the household cleaning and bill paying. She even planned a surprise birthday party for him earlier in the year.
“Here’s the point: you’re doing the bare minimum and expecting your girlfriend to be wowed by it. But she’s not. And she shouldn’t be.” Simon pauses, presumably to let his words sink in. “Every single one of you is here because you acknowledge that you’re falling short in some area of your relationship. I’m not saying your partners are perfect. I know they’re not because no one is. And I’m sure some of your partners are falling short in some way too. But women in relationships tend to take on the majority of housework, social scheduling, childcare, looking after elderly parents, all that. Statistically speaking, your partners are doing so much already that you don’t even acknowledge.”
He pauses once more, presumably to let that point sink in too.
“So yeah, maybe in this one area of your life,youshould take the initiative. Own your mistakes and show your partner that you’re committed to being better. And to do that, first you need to realize what it is that you’re doing wrong. So where are you falling short, Miles?”
Miles shakes his head, then looks like a light bulb has gone off in his mind. “I... I think my issue is that I’m not taking initiative like she is.”
“Your girlfriend makes it a point to do all this unprompted,” Simon says. “Every time she has to spell out what exactly she needs from you, it’s frustrating and hurtful to her. You should already know to do those things. You’re not a kid. You’re a grown man, and grown men should pay attention. Grown men shouldn’t have to be told ten times to do something, especially by their partner.”
There’s a faint chorus of hums and yesses from the audience.
Simon goes on to explain the emotional labor Miles’s girlfriend is likely doing, managing her emotional responses to his lack of initiative. When he mentions how women are stuck doing the emotional labor in most heterosexual relationships, I find myself nodding along. That’s the story of every adult relationship I’ve ever had. When the camera pans back to Miles, he looks awestruck. Simon finally gave this guy the ass-kicking revelation he needed.
Miles’s head droops. “Man, I... I suck.”
“It doesn’t have to stay that way,” Simon says. “Now you know your problem. And you know how to fix it, don’t you?”
Applause follows Simon’s encouragement. And then I realize I’m clapping too. I stop once I register just how silly it is for me to be applauding a prerecorded video. I can’t help it, though. Simon is a genius, but it’s not because he’s delivering groundbreaking information. All of what he said is stuff that women have been telling their partners for years. The groundbreaking part is the fact that Simon, a guy, is calling other guys out instead of commiserating along with them. It’s one thing for your partner to call you out, but it’s something else entirely when a fellow dude takes you to task and says you need to do better.
Just then my phone rings. It’s Simon. I take a second to breathe before answering.
“Hello, is this Naomi Ellorza-Hays?”
“Yes! Simon. Um, hey there—hi.”
He chuckles, and I register that he actually said my full last name, hyphenate and all. Most people go with one or the other, which never fails to annoy me. My parents gave me both of their names, and I’ve proudly worn that hyphen my whole life. The fact that Simon didn’t just brush my name off like everyone else makes me like him even more.
“This doesn’t happen to be the Naomi I had the pleasure of meeting last night, does it?”
I cover my face with my free hand. “That’s me. The shoe-vom girl. Very sorry for how things went down.”
“Don’t apologize. I thought it was cute,” he says, his tone easy.
Cute.
That single word has my chest fluttering.
“But, the vomiting...” I drift off, too embarrassed to say more.
“I worked as a nurse’s aide in grad school. Do you know how many times someone’s vomited on me? You barely got my shoes. It’s really not a big deal.”
Not only is he dynamite in bed and rehabs mediocre males, but he was also a caregiver. A professional nurturer. Cue all the swooning.
“Thanks. I appreciate how gracious you’re being.”
“Don’t fret about it.” Thank goodness he doesn’t know just how triggering that phrase is for me. I get another visual flashback of him leaning away from his thoroughly satisfied partner and wiping his lips with the back of his hand before saying those same words.
