My mother, in her infinite wisdom, has always said to me, “You have to tell a man what you need, honey, or you’re never gonna get it.” This nugget of relationship advice has been confirmed countless times by my father, who nods from the chair in front of his computer desk. “It’s true, honey,” he says. “We’re clueless.” But, as a teenager and a young woman in my early twenties, I habitually eschewed my mother’s advice in favor of my own intuitions. Consequently, I found myself embroiled in countless unfulfilling relationships wherein my male counterpart had absolutely no idea how to please me. That, or he just plain didn’t care to try.

Later, I decided to give my mom’s advice a whirl. After all, My Way hadn’t exactly been earmarked with satisfaction and success. I started telling my then-boyfriend (now husband) What I Wanted. It turned out to be a refreshing and uncomplicated modus operandi; most of the waiting-around-for-him-to-figure-it-out frustrations which had characterized my previous relationships were eliminated. But despite the apparent advantages of this new method of “relating”, there is a part of me (probably the die-hard, romantic-on-steroids part) that bridles at the principle of the new arrangement. Yes, my needs are made clear(er) to my partner, and he is able to meet them more often than previous partners because at the very least, they are out in the open. Nonetheless, I sometimes hear this tiny little voice in my head. The voice doesn’t really say anything, it just sighs.

The problem is this: Women (or just me, maybe) want men to know what we (I) want, without us (me) having to tell them or explain my/ourselves. I know, I know. That’s tantamount to both eating and having the proverbial cake. Yet, what this admittedly fairy-tale-esque situation would represent to me is the very heart of the matter. Take, for instance, the advent of Valentine’s Day. I could say to my husband, “You know, Honey, how I’ve told you that holidays, both personal and culturally recognized, are important events for me. I would very much like you to buy me a present on Valentine’s Day. It doesn’t have to be large or expensive, but it would mean a lot to me to know that you had been thinking about me, and wanted to give me some small token of your affection on this day dedicated to the celebration of love.” If I said that to my husband, I would undoubtedly be the recipient of a small gift today. The problem is, I don’t want him to give me a present because I requested a present, I want him to give me a present because he was thinking about me and wanted to give me a small token of his affection on this day of love. Like I said. It’s very much about the motive. The gift, representing a met need, is finally almost beside the point. This paradox puts my husband in a difficult position of having to either A.) Divine my wants and desires from the ether (a task at which men are apparently quite untalented), B.) Having to present me with a gift I practically demanded, or C.) Having to disappoint me with his lack of intuition.

But my husband isn’t the only one who gets snagged in that perilous cranny between the Rock and the Hard Place. I, too, am faced with a paradoxical situation. My choices, as they seem to me, are to either convince myself that I do not, in fact, want a present, have a need, etc., thereby artificially circumventing the chagrin of not having my need met. Or, I could let my need be known. But this route is in a way self-defeating, since the professed need is merely pretext for the real need, which is to have a partner that is so totally into me that he can anticipate my needs without me ever having to give voice to them. I’m sure this makes me totally impossible and ridiculous. And immature. In fact, I admit it. Just like I admit that eating a huge banana split for every meal is a bad idea. Knowledge of the fat and sugar content combined with the low fiber and utter lack of green leafiness doesn’t change the fact that it sounds really yummy and I want it.

Further complicating this issue is the idea of Love Languages. As a caveat, I should mention that I haven’t actually read this book, I’ve just heard people (like my pre-marriage counselor) talk about it. Here’s the breakdown: Person A shows love to Person B in the way that Person A would like to have love demonstrated to them. For instance, I like to receive presents. In Milly’s world, presents = love (massages = love, too). This also means that to show love, I give my husband presents (or massages). The problem is that, for my husband, love ≠ presents. Instead, love = … uh… hamburgers for dinner? Sex? Honestly, I don’t really know. The whole idea is that you are supposed to learn to “speak” the love language of your partner, so that when they are trying to show you love, you get it. And also so that you can demonstrate love in a way that resonates more powerfully with them. Here’s where that little voice sighs again. Because I want my husband, of his own volition, to learn my “love language”. I could translate myself for him, but that’s like lending your notes to someone who never comes to class.

And besides, I want a massage, not a language lesson. Just like I’m sure he’d rather have a hamburger.

Again, I’m clearly being immature. And, as usual, outrageously impatient. After all, we’ve only been married for 7 months. My mother, on the other hand, doles out advice from her cozy perch atop a 420-month mountain of marriage (that’s 35 years, folks). My husband is a great guy, and I’m very dedicated to having a highly functional, healthy, lifelong love relationship with him.

Even if it means frying up a burger. Or reading that blasted book.