When a person is in a relationship, it’s easy to resent the constant and ho-hum existence you’ve worked so hard to maintain. 

A (our) Love Story—In Three Parts:

Good Morning.

We lie in bed and look at each other.  Finally one of us ventures to say a suggestion for the shape of our day.  “Breakfast out?”  (Me).  This is countered by him “don’t we have food?”  Of course we have food.  Sometimes I just want to eat breakfast out.  Breakfast out, in fact, is my favorite meal of the day to have out.  I like the clean table, the fresh flowers, and hot coffee.  The nice mimosa and assorted jams—things I never keep in my fridge because it’s too hard to keep multiple jars of jam at home.  It feels irresponsible.  If you prefer raspberry, buy it.  It’s unfair to buy both raspberry AND apricot, just because sometimes you like to have a little apricot on your toast.

I digress.  On it goes.  It is established we have food.  Now it is my turn to act pouty and irritable because he doesn’t’ want to go out and I do.  And he expects me to cook the breakfast in that I didn’t want in the first place.

Clad in underwear and a tee shirt I pour orange juice for myself and put nuts and berries on yogurt.  He removes Tupperware with rice and beans and turns the wok on high heat.  I can see it smoking, knowing that soon it will blacken and burn anything he thoughtless drops in.

“The pan is too hot.”  I tell him, turning it down.  And so it begins.

“Will you help me?” he asks, but it’s not a question, it’s a necessity.  If the alternative is having him start a grease fire in our home, then yes, I guess I’ll have to. 

Help turns into to me doing it for him, dropping ingredients one after the other in, while he occasionally doubles back with a few—soy sauce, sesame oil.  Even though it is his concoction, he looks at me benignly as we sit down to eat and says, “You should have put in more soy.”

What’s yours is mine.

Early on in our relationship I decided to buy a computer.  The old Dell I’d purchased in college was buggy and cumbersome, and HE had a little Mac book and swore it was the best.  Thrilled by his willingness to assist me, we set out to some mall in search of an Apple Store. 

It was so easy to spend 2k I felt a little light headed as we walked to the food court.  It was, at that time, my largest purchase ever.  Those clever Apple people, with their “come to you” little credit card scanners and willingness to believe I was a student and throw in an ipod.—it all happened so fast.

And when he volunteered to set up the computer I was, again, thrilled.  Having never been into them or much of anything fast moving, I happily relinquished my grip (though still dutifully paid off the charge by month) and let him tinker.

Now, years later?  The result is this.  It is HIS computer.  He can work it, I cannot.  The screen saver, the passwords, the movies we download, the music we keep—all his.  The only thing easier than buying the computer was inadvertently giving it away.  He let me keep the American Express charge as a souvenir.

You think yours is bad?

He has a headache? I have a migraine.  My back hurts?  His ACHES.  Insomnia?  No way it’s as bad as the sleep deprivation he’s been experiencing.  Or the cactus thorn he found in his hand or the pulled muscle in his thigh. 

We spend hours topping to other, each sincerely believing their ailment is worse.  I suppose it would be easiest to just cuddle one another and try to comfort the other while being comforted in return, but instead we spend our time trying to determine who is the winner and deserves ALL the affection and who is the chump baby that should grow up?

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s