Before bringing a man into my home there was very little I couldn’t do by and for myself. I bought a house, painted walls, cleaned out gutters, killed threatening insects, captured menacing rodents, carried heavy trash to the top of my steep driveway, lugged seasonal clothing to and from my basement, hung oversized mirrors, carried my own luggage, and drove around the country, before I even heard of a GPS.
I dealt with annoying phone solicitors, chauvinistic car salesmen, condescending mechanics, and attended functions, alone. The most surprising part is I genuinely enjoyed doing things on my own because after a lifetime of being treated like a fragile, Dresden doll, it was thrilling to discover that I actually had a brain and I didn’t need to lean on anyone. In fact, I was quite competent.
Then, along came this man who wanted to marry me. I had no interest in getting married. Been there – Done that, and wasn’t crazy about it the first time. But, he wanted a committed relationship – a union that God would sanction. And, above all, he wanted to take care of me.
Now, I’m all for pleasing God, but why would I need someone to take care of me? I had been self sufficient for years, thank you very much. What could he possibly do for me that I didn’t already do for myself?
The answer? Open pill bottles, hook and unhook necklaces, and break into hermetically sealed over-the-counter packages; tasks not intended for arthritic hands. Fact is that if I had to rely on my own ability to open some of my medications, I’d be in real danger of dying.
And he came with another amenity: a tiny pen knife – an instrument he carries on him at all times. In the two years I’ve known him that pen knife has saved many situations and caused me to wonder how I had managed without one. It cuts masking tape, annoying plastic wrap on CD’s, price tags from new clothing, boat lines, and flower stems. It also slices open UPS packages and cleans finger nails; all things I’d relied on my teeth for.
He carries nothing but a thin wallet, keys, a cell phone and that pen knife. My pocketbook hangs heavy on my shoulder, filled with countless creature comforts I can’t seem to leave the house without: my makeup kit, hair brush, cell phone, keys, date book, check book, wallet, credit cards, medications, eye glasses and tissues and a thick stack of coupons bound by a rubber band.
He makes fun of my perceived need to carry the world with me. It’s then I remind him he would not have the luxury of hands-free walking were it not for my purse:
“Can you put my keys in your purse?”
“Here. Carry my phone, too.”
“Wait. Throw in this map, and my glasses.”
“Did you bring aspirin?”
“Do you have Tums?”
“Got any breath mints?”
“Do you have a tissue?”
All that in my purse while his pockets are virtually empty.
Once a week I empty my pocketbook onto my bed toward a goal of lightening my load. I generally toss a few dirty tissues, and remove several pieces of loose change that have dropped to the bottom. Then, one by one, everything goes right back into my purse. It’s a curse and I don’t know how to break it.
Now that I’m living with a man I realize that we’re very different. I hadn’t focused on that before we were married. The stars in my eyes blocked my vision.
He did the marketing without me the other day. On the shopping list were 6 boxes of tissues. He came home with 6 boxes of tissues – each with a different color and design. I couldn’t believe it. I asked him to shut his eyes and tell me if he knew the color of our bathrooms. “One is beige and the other is green,” he answered cautiously.
“Then why did you bring home purple, red and blue boxes of tissues?”
He looked at me as though he’d caught me nibbling on a tree. “What difference does it make?” he had the audacity to ask.
I tried to explain that I have been known to climb supermarket shelves to reach the right color box. I’ve also been known to not buy tissues at all if I couldn’t find the color box I needed – even if my nose was running.
Living with someone requires many adjustments. I can see he’s got his work cut out for him.
Leave A Comment