Whelp…I had a post yesterday. I wrote one. I even thought I posted it. Guess what I did? I did NOT post it. And, then…I lost it. So, you get another post that isn’t what I wrote about yesterday, and is totally off topic. I’ll revisit yesterday, tomorrow. It’ll be like we are in a time-warp.
My darling husband is out getting gas in my car for me, at this moment. This wouldn’t be all that fascinating, except that I passed a gas station, on the way home, which was easily accessible, and I didn’t even consider stopping. Okay, I lie. I did think of it. Briefly, as I drove briskly by. I loathe getting gas.
It isn’t the smell. It isn’t the irritating beeps and boops at the pumps. It isn’t that I hate standing in the heat, or the cold, or the wind, or the rain. It isn’t even that I’m annoyed about gas prices. I just hate doing it.
We all have chores that just, for no other reason than that they exist, annoy us to no end. For me, that chore is getting gas. I wish that we could just will our tanks full as we drove by the stations, like a genie twinkling our noses, or blinking our eyes. Alas, no. I have the next best thing, a willing husband. I think that I’ve lucked out, in that regard. For all the chores that I hate, I’ve got someone who is willing to simply do them for me.
This brings me to the idea of all the other things he does for me that I don’t want to do. When I sit down and think of it, truly I’m quite spoiled. That’s not to say that I don’t do equally as many things for him. The thing is that the things I do for him aren’t because he doesn’t want to do them, they are because he simply doesn’t do them.
Call it what you will; perhaps it’s been poor husband-training, over the years; or perhaps it’s because I just haven’t bothered to tell him that these things bother me. Whatever it is, I do things for him that he doesn’t do, or doesn’t want to do. These are things like never drying the counter after washing dishes, picking up his socks, or buying himself new clothes. Okay, that last one he hates doing, and if I didn’t do it, he’d still be wearing the same outfit (including socks and underwear) that he wore on our first date.
Anyway, I don’t ever have to do the following, and for that, I’m eternally grateful to pick up his gross socks.
Clean up Vomit
I’m relegated to rubbing Collin’s back when he’s sick, and pretending that I’m not freaking out that he just vomited, while also simultaneously pretending that the smell is not bothering me, at all. Meanwhile, because Collin has taken a penchant to vomiting over the side of his loft bed, poor Bryon is stuck cleaning an entire room, including crevasses and crannies one could only imagine in nightmares.
Sure, I make the occasional run to Whole Foods, which is fun and games; but, I don’t have to do the weekly or bi-weekly shopping. I used to the menu, but now I only “help,” with that, and even that is in earnest. Bryon braves the commissary crowd for his family. Any time I have gone with him, I need a nap afterwards because he can get in and out of a bi-weekly shopping trip in under a half an hour. It’s like a sprint workout on cocaine. I don’t know how he does it. I don’t want to know. All I know is that it’s exhausting. One time, I went to the bathroom on the way in, and by the time I was finished, he was done. Not really, but close.
This one is surprising, because the cats are really, mostly, mine. I used to do it; but then my shoulder decided that it no longer wants to be part of this family. Surprisingly, shoveling shit and urine, lightly encased in gravel is surprisingly difficult to do with your non-dominant hand, as I discovered when trying to do it with my left hand. I kept flicking the stupid gravel all over the room, and then having to vacuum it up, which is also bad for a bad shoulder. Alas, hubby took over litter-duty, which is a twice-a-day job now, with three cats. He loves this chore, which is the only thing I can assume based on his constant grumbling about it. Whenever I bring up the idea a fourth cat, he is so exuberant in his exultations, I can only assume that he enjoys shoveling shit, anyway.
Marriage is about compromise, right? I don’t grocery shop, and he doesn’t put the pillows back on the bed, at least not correctly. I don’t clean up vomit, and he doesn’t always remember to close cabinet doors. We all have our “things.” What I do know is that he’ll be right by my side through random illness, and countless trips to countless hospitals. And, that he’ll fill up the gas tank.