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By: Scott Christian
I hate losing. It doesn’t matter at what; bowling, video games, sports, a race to the top of the subway steps. Last year I got so pissed when the Dodgers lost to the Cardinals in the playoffs that I had to walk half the width of Manhattan to cool off. Needless to say I’m competitive. Which is great for some things in life, like work, or softball leagues, or impromptu dance-offs (because life isn’t worth living if it’s not like an ‘80s movie), but for relationships, it’s terrible.
Surely you’ve been down this road at least once before: a small disagreement turns into a bigger fight, which then snowballs into a knockdown, drag out grudge match. By the end of it you’re just a pair of Mike Tysons looking for the nearest ear to bite off. It’s the sort of emotional brawl that the movie Before Midnight brilliantly recreates, which, for anyone who’s ever been in a serious relationship, surely must inspire a bit of PTSD. But here’s the thing about those sorts of high-octane battles: they should, and can (to an extent), be avoided.
I once wrote an article about a guy named Nate Bagley, who traveled the country interviewing happy couples for a project called Loveumentary. One common factor that he found among them was that they didn’t fight to win. Rather, they fought to understand what it was that was making their partner so upset. Which is a difficult thing to do when you are convinced that you are the one who is right. But the truth in almost any fight is there are two sides to the issue. Or if not two sides, then perhaps what you’re fighting about isn’t really the issue at all. Either way, what you are seeing when you fight to win is, more often than not, only the side that most benefits you.
Which is why being a competitive person makes things so hard. In our culture, we’re taught early to fight for what we believe in. But what happens when “what we believe in” is really just selfish desire? Or even if it isn’t, and what we want is subjectively good, what happens when it comes at the cost of the person we supposedly care most about? In that case, “winning” the argument isn’t really winning at all.
In the end, a successful relationship is about, and this is almost painful for me to write, giving. Not materially, but existentially. It’s about loving that other person enough to empathize with them, even when you don’t agree with them. So an argument, then, shouldn’t be an argument at all, but a series of questions designed to understand your partner’s point of view—why it is that they got to the point of being pissed at you in the first place. And from there, more often than not, it’s about simply swallowing your pride, and realizing that, if you really are in it for the long haul, then being understanding is almost always better than being right.
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