Boston Gal's Open Wallet

I’m a worrier and a planner, my husband is not, and that’s not news to either of us. But when I woke him up at 3 a.m. a few times this fall to tear my hair about our tanking retirement accounts, our spending, our dismal future — he was ready to outsource me to a psychiatrist. It became clear that we didn’t have the luxury of dodging this source of friction.

We worked out a compromise that was long overdue: I’m finding other outlets for my anxiety (yoga, cooking, campy sitcoms); he now uses various forms of the verb “to plan” (I am planning, we should plan, let’s plan) with a frequency that I find soothing.

Of course, what makes finding any sort of middle ground so challenging is that money troubles are rarely just about finances. Each person brings goals, dreams, values, habits, whole long histories to a relationship. It can take years to knit that together into something resembling financial intimacy. Trust me: I’m still stitching away.

Labels: MP