How could I forget
about the Pterodactyl who still resides there and shows no sign of leaving
anytime soon? Throughout my time as a
parent I’ve generally received compliments about my children when they are not
with me; I can’t necessarily say the same for my nesting partner. Despite
the 30 years I’ve been working on this project, I believe my grade is rather
poor in this category. I’m an enabler, a
caretaker, a softy, and years of dependency have resulted in the creation of a domestically
inept prehistoric monster.
For example, this
morning I made him waffles, paid his parking ticket, and did a huge quantity of
laundry so he could depart on his trip tomorrow. If
this doesn’t scream “MOM!” I don’t know what does. Even my son pays his own parking tickets, does
his own laundry and cooks for himself when he is home! Blake’s own grandmother once told me he was
the worst trained man she had ever met.
Oy vey, I’m in trouble.
A few years back I
blogged about the symptoms of peri-menopause, and as I moved through this life
passage, I seem to have escaped the hot flashes (picture me knocking on wood
here, there is still time for these trials to occur), and most of the night
sweats. There are a few lingering
issues that are vexing but not life altering:
my emotions run on the high side - I can cry at the drop of a hat, I
seem to crave only things that are sweet or salty, and my skin still breaks out
on occasion. The one nagging symptom
that I can’t seem to shake is the overwhelming feeling of impatience and
contempt for my long-term roommate/spouse/colleague/oldest and largest child --
everything he does annoys me.
Every. Single.
Thing.
The way he flosses
his teeth and I can hear the little picking noises. He paces around the entire house while he is
on a conference call, making it impossible for the rest of us to go about our
day. The endless adverbs he uses in his writing that I cross out as I edit his
letters (I wholeheartedly concur with Stephen King that the road to hell is
paved with adverbs). The fact that he is
always home when the UPS man comes and comments on the multitude of packages
arriving. The pile of crumpled “Week”
magazines on the his bedside table next to the Q-tip he leaves in case his ear
gets itchy in the middle of the night. The two octaves his voice climbs after he’s
had a few drinks. He drags his feet when he walks in his
slippers thus making an unmistakable CALUMP CALUMP noise on the wood floors
that reverberates throughout the house (when this is combined with the
conference call pacing I am forced to leave the nest). Three pairs of his pants and a sweatshirt take
up an entire load of laundry. When he
does empower himself to make his own breakfast, I inevitably find a shriveled,
dried up English muffin in the toaster at 2 pm. The fact that he has read maybe
2 books in the last five years but has seen every episode of Real
Housewives. He returns almost everything
that people buy for him, and often times things he buys for himself. He is like goldilocks on steroids. I could go on and on here, but it would take
up a lot of space and listing my grievances is not productive (although
somewhat satisfying). I know that this
is my problem, and up until now I
have been able to keep these irritations at a sub-conscious level i.e. I
noticed them but they didn’t get under my skin.
Lately, my skin is crawling and I can’t make it stop. These habits have probably been around for a
long time, but are magnified as we age.
No longer distracted by making school lunches and managing the schedules
of my children, I am totally dedicated to the shortcomings of my spouse. This is not a job that makes either of us
happy.
When I read the Five
Love Languages several years ago, I categorized myself as a #4 Acts of
Service. I recognized Blake as a
combination of #2 Quality Time and #5 Physical Touch (I think it is pretty
obvious that most men fall into this category).
I’m thinking that we need to add a 6th Love Language for us
empty nesters that involves extreme tolerance, meditation, and some sort of
distractive stimulus when it comes to dealing with our partner’s imperfections.
Or maybe just good old fashion
self-medication is the answer; tequila, edibles, or Valium would probably do
the trick.
The
rate of divorce among adults 50 or older (this is called a gray divorce) is
only about 10% (which is actually double what it was in the 90’s but still
relatively low compared to other age groups).
This statistic suggests that people are finding a way to live with their
spouse despite the ongoing aggravation. Or
they have resigned themselves to the old adage that the devil you know is better
than the devil you don’t? Perhaps murder rates are higher among spouses after
the kids leave the nest?
Let’s
review my options: drugs, living with
the devil, or committing a felony. The future looks bright indeed….
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