by Lee Bernstein 

By the time you’ve been married for almost fifty years, you learn to pick your battles. For example, I no longer argue with my husband, Howard, about how loud his cell phone games are. Because, thanks to modern technology—and, in some twisted way, my undoing, I no longer hear the noise.

Howard wears hearing aids. He’s worn them since his teenage years, but back then they were clunky, squeaky, and filled with static. Now, in his seventies, he’s upgraded to sleek, nearly invisible, Bluetooth-enabled marvels of science. Marvels, yes. But also, weapons.

He doesn’t wear his hearing aids so much as he wields them.

I admire how he’s mastered the art of selective hearing. One moment, we’re discussing  dinner plans, and the next, he’s taken out his hearing aids and is staring into space like he’s solving the mysteries of the universe. It’s clear—he doesn’t want to talk about it. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, raising my voice, asking—no, pleading, if we have any lettuce. Three times. Still nothing.

I’m starting to think selective hearing isn’t a problem as much as an evolutionary advantage.

“I didn’t hear you,” he’ll say, pointing to his little, lobe-centered robots.

“Oh,” I say sweetly. “Silly me. I forgot to make an appointment with your battery.”

And let’s talk about the Bluetooth feature. What genius decided that hearing aids need the ability to stream phone calls directly into your head? With Howard, it’s like living with a CIA agent. He sits in his recliner, nodding and mumbling, and I think he’s talking to me. I answer. He frowns. “I’m on the phone,” he whispers, like I’ve interrupted an international arms deal.

It’s downright disorienting. He’s completely silent one second and lets out a rare laugh the next. “Who are you talking to?” I ask, thoroughly confused.

He taps his ear with all the smugness of a secret agent. “John,” he says. “On Bluetooth.”

Ah, of course. The Bluetooth fairy strikes again, sprinkling wireless conversations like pixie dust.

Howard has also perfected the art of tuning things out by conveniently leaving his hearing aids in the charger at just the right moments. It’s nothing short of remarkable. I can wave, shout, or flail like one of those inflatable tube men at a car dealership, but getting him to pay attention (when he won’t) is like teaching a pigeon to pay taxes. Meanwhile, the hearing aids charge, replenishing alibis. Honestly, it’s genius.

And I know he’s doing it on purpose. He’s developed a sixth sense for when something requires his attention. The garbage could be two banana peels away from collapse, and suddenly—click—he’s on mute. I call this his “preemptive disengagement strategy.”

But the most amazing part is how well he can hear when it suits him. Whisper “chocolate” from across the house? He’s there in five seconds. Mention that our neighbor called and might need help moving? Radio silence.

I admit, part of me finds all of this impressive. It’s taken decades, but he’s figured out how to control what he hears, when, and from whom. He’s curated his own reality. That’s not a hearing aid. That’s a superpower.

I try to get the last word occasionally, to no avail.

“Can you hear me now?” I’ll ask, waving dramatically like I’m on the tarmac at JFK.

He’ll sigh, adjust a setting, and nod.

“Good,” I say. “Because you know what? I love you very much.”

He smiles, ever patient. “I love you, too, but I think we’re breaking up,” he says, tapping his ear. “Might be interference.”

It’s hard to be mad. After all these years, I know the man. Howard may turn off his hearing aids, but he never turns off his brilliance. And when he does decide to listen, it’s like the universe aligns—profound insights, sharp wit, and just enough charm to make you forget he wasn’t listening in the first place. I suppose that’s enough. Even if it means I have to shout.

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