From The Guinea Pig Diaries: To Serve With Love

How A. J. Jacobs survived a month of playing the perfect husband.

The most common theme of all the e-mails I get—with the possible exception of those from Canadians who are furious that I once misspelled Wayne Gretzky's name (who knew Canadians could get so worked up?)—is that my wife, Julie, is a saint.

Readers have said they're in awe of her for putting up with the beard I grew for my book on the Bible and the endless stream of facts about, say, China's opium wars during my year of reading the Britannica, and all the other nonsense that has come with my writing projects. Some people have even said I owe her something—precious stones, perhaps.

But others have said I need to pay Julie back by spending a month doing everything she says. As in, a month of foot massages and scrubbing dishes and watching Kate Hudson movies (if Julie actually liked Kate Hudson, which she doesn't).

I can't argue that Julie's a saint. But the experiment is …

Well, if I'm being honest, it's actually a pretty good idea. It'll let me explore the tricky power dynamics of the modern American marriage.

So I decide to launch it.

When I tell Julie about Operation Ideal Husband (or Operation Whipped, as my friend John calls it), she jumps for joy. I don't mean metaphorically. She bounds around the living room on an invisible pogo stick, clapping her hands and saying, "Yay!"

Julie usually does wear the pants in our family, to use a clothing metaphor. But for one month, I will wash those pants and iron them. I'll be geisha-like in my obedience and think of nothing but her happiness. I will be an obedient 18th-century wife to my 21st-century wife. Laying the Groundwork
First I ask Julie to tell me some things she wants from me during this month. She begins to talk. It's a good thing I brought a notebook.

"Well, let's start with the bed," she says. "No forcing me to the edge of the bed with your six pillows. No waking me up when you come in at night using your BlackBerry as a flashlight. And no talking during movies. No looking over at me during sad parts to see if I'm crying."

I'm scribbling away, trying to keep up. It's kind of disturbing how easily this river of minor grievances flows out of Julie.

"No buying the first fruit you pick up at the grocery store," she continues. "No wasting food. If the boys"—we have three—"don't finish something, wrap it up and keep it for the next meal."

My wife is in the zone. I have pet peeves, too, but I don't usually recall them with such accuracy and speed.

"No making fun of my family," says Julie. "No complaining about having to go to New Jersey on New Year's Eve. If I ask a simple question like 'Is the drugstore open on Sundays?' and you don't know the answer, try saying, 'I don't know.' Do not tell me, 'It is a mystery that humans have been pondering for centuries, but scientists and philosophers are no closer to an answer.'"

Okay. I can see how that might get old. Fair enough.

"Go to sleep at a decent hour so you're not a zombie in the morning," she adds without missing a beat. "No telling me when an attractive woman friends you on Facebook in a lame attempt to get me jealous. No putting things back in the fridge when there's a teensy bit left."

"Now wait a second," I interject. "You just said, 'Don't waste food.' I'm getting mixed messages here."

"It's a fine line, but I think you can figure it out."

I must have looked like I'd just gotten beaned by an Olympic shot put to the forehead, because suddenly Julie softens.

"I love you," she says.

"Noted," I say.

The First Day
"Good morning, honey! You look terrific!" I say, really playing this up.

"Thanks, sweetie!" she responds.

Soon after these niceties, Julie assigns me my first chore of the day. "Can you think of a third gift we can give your father for his birthday?"

Three gifts? That's my initial reaction. My reflex is to make some clumsy remark like "So two gifts aren't enough? What was he, born in a manger?"

Instead I just say, "Sure."

This is something I notice throughout the day. Whenever Julie says something, my default setting is to argue with her. It's (usually) not overtly hostile bickering. It's just affectionate parrying. Verbal jujitsu.

I also know it's not good. You playfully bicker enough, and after a few years, it stops being playful.

I've got to reboot my brain. Marriage doesn't have to be boxing. Maybe it can be two people with badminton rackets trying to keep the birdie in the air.

So I spend the day trying to suppress my "me first" instincts. For every decision, I ask, What would Julie want?

Checking with my inner Julie every 20 seconds or so is exhausting, though. I start to cut the cantaloupe for my sons' breakfast and stop. Julie once complained that I cut cantaloupes all jaggedly, like a graph of the NASDAQ. I couldn't care less, but it matters to her. So I use a sharper knife and make a smooth and straight cut.

"Are you liking this?" I ask as she watches me.

"Loving it. And it's great for our marriage. Right?"

"Right!" I say.

And bite my tongue.

• • Book Excerpts
• • Relationships

• One Giant Leap: An Excerpt from Rocket Men
• Forty years after the Apollo 11 crew made history, we finally know their secrets.
• 
• Into the Eye of a Hurricane
• A wild ride in a tricked-out airplane--and insider's guide to storms.
• 
• Life Coach Roger Barta
• How a high school football coach built a championship dynasty by never playing to win.
•