Sean Johnson - Intentionally - The Education of Sean Johnson

It’s a little embarassing when people ask me what my fiance and I talk about when we’re alone. Embarassing because the conversations usually go something like this:

Person 1: What kind of tree is that?
Person 2: You’re a tree.
Person 1: You’re a leaf.
Person 2: You’re a fig.
Person 1: You’re a newton.
Person 2: You’re an apple.
Person 1: You’re Steve Jobs.

These conversations occupy a healthy chunk of our relationship. And interestingly enough, they’re some of the most productive conversations we have.

Love doesn’t usually die in an instant. It’s usually a slow, almost imperceptible death. And many times, it’s a result of those little darts we call sarcasm.

The problem with sarcasm is that it rarely servers a purpose other than to fill up conversation. So many times in relationships our humor begins to turn dark as we spend more time together. Jokes that used to be playful, light, self-effacing become cutting, sharp, painful. The goal isn’t to upset or offend, for some reason it’s just the first thing that comes out of our mouth.

Of course, once it’s out we don’t apologize. The first few times it happens they know we did something wrong, we know we did something wrong. But they don’t want to start a fight over a careless remark, and for some reason we feel the need swell up in us to posture - to act like it actually wasn’t a mean thing to say at all. In fact, it was quite funny.

And so it begins. The other side gets used to it, begins to fire their own little darts, which we take. How could we not - after all, they’re not trying to upset us. We do it to them all the time.

But eventually the darts get a bit larger, a bit more painful. We start using reinforced steel shafts, poison heads. Soon we move to mild explosives, heat-seekers that go after the softest, most vulnerable places of each other’s hearts.

The problem is that we don’t mean it. The problem is that long after the conversation has passed, the damage sticks there. The problem is that over time, these darks leave cracks and fissures in our hearts, in the trust that we’ve managed to build up over time. The problem is that these small comments make us feel a little less smart, a little less beautiful, a little less worthwhile.

It’s too small a prick to notice, which is why it’s so deadly.

The past two years have represented a concerted effort on my part to curb the sarcasm. Some would argue that it’s made me a lot less funny, which is probably accurate.

But a big reason for my relationship’s success is because two bright, quick-witted people - people who have become great at dart practice over the years - silently and mutually decided to put the darts away. Though we’ve both been guiltly of countless moments of forgetfullness or clumsiness or downright stupidity, the darts stay locked up in the shelf.

Whenever there’s a lull in the conversation, our filler is embarassingly silly - it’s not thought-provoking, it’s not philosophical, it’s not conversation fit for intellectuals.

But it beats dart practice any day.