 |
| Image credit: Photo by fixlr on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
My husband Mark cannot take care of himself. Really, the man cannot even keep track of what he likes. I have to do it for him. I present as evidence the last few weeks of grocery shopping.
Last week, Mark was sick, and I (sweet and loving spouse that I am) asked him to make a list of anything special he wanted me to pick up for him during my grocery store run. So, he made a list of comfort foods, saying that if I was in a hurry, he really only wanted some Gatorade because he felt a little dehydrated. Still, I decided I was going to get him every darn thing on the list, because I loved him that much. I was going to make sure he wanted for nothing, including oatmeal, next to which he had written "cinnamon spice or plain." I hesitated, right there reading the list, because of course I wasn't going to just get him plain (that's so boring!), but I was pretty sure what he liked was maple brown sugar. Hm.
When I arrived in the cereal aisle of the grocery store, I encountered a tragedy of epic proportions: there were no individual boxes of cinnamon spice oatmeal, just combo packs that also included apple cinnamon (which no one in our house likes) and maple brown sugar. So now I was faced with a dilemma, one that I fully realized was retribution for not having clarified the all important cinnamon spice question before leaving the house: what would really make Mark happiest?
I mean, I know he said cinnamon spice, but I keep track of these things, you know, and I'm pretty sure that what he actually likes is maple brown sugar. But if I just get the maple brown sugar, then I'm specifically buying what he didn't ask for. Maybe he's in the mood for cinnamon spice and will be angry and disappointed if I substitute a more convenient flavor, even one he likes. But if I get the multi-pack, I'm going to have to eat all the damn apple cinnamon that no one likes or waste food and money by throwing it out. I was tempted to call him for clarification, but my phone was out of batteries.
So I stood in front of that oatmeal and ran through my various oatmeal purchasing choices for five minutes (I know. It's exhausting to be me.) before I finally settled on two variety packs and one package of plain oatmeal.
The next day, Mark paused, spoonful of oatmeal in hand and said, "You know what? I just realized it's actually maple brown sugar that I like better!" And I wanted to reach over and strangle him. What did he mean he liked maple brown sugar better? After all I'd gone through. I could well have gotten him the wrong thing! And now I was going to end up eating all the apple cinnamon for nothing. Damn it! And this was the second time in as many weeks something like this had happened.
You see, a while back, he had picked up a two pack of cleaning wipes at the store: a tub of "fresh scent" packaged in green and a tub of "lemon fresh" packaged in yellow. After cleaning the bathroom, he said, "You know. There's something I don't like about the way the green ones smell. I like the yellow ones better." Duly noted: Mark does not like the green ones; never buy them again. So, I assiduously bought only yellow packages of cleaning wipes, even when the green ones were on sale. After all, I couldn't subject Mark to the green ones that he didn't like. (The horror!)
The only problem was, the next time Mark had to pick up cleaning wipes from the store himself, he picked up a huge tub of... yes, the green ones. "But you don't like these!" I spluttered, furious that he'd bought the evil green wipes. He'd bought THE WRONG ONES! And I wasn't even angry because I don't like the green ones; I don't care. I was mad because he doesn't like the green ones.
"Oh," said Mark, "I don't?"
"You said you didn't like the way they smell!"
"Oh, yeah. I guess I did. Oh well."
Oh well? Was he serious? That's it? Oh well?! How dare he not even know what he likes! I take up precious mental real estate with this information! I can't follow my kids' math homework, and it's probably because all of my brain cells are being devoted to keeping track of important things like "Mark's favorite oatmeal flavor" and "Mark's preferred scent of cleaning wipes." Things that Mark... doesn't. even. think. are. important...
Oh.
So, it turns out Mark can take care of himself just fine. Mark isn't keeping track of that stuff because emit actually doesn't matter to him/em. He didn't ask me to go through all that trouble for the oatmeal or the wipes (or many of the other things I've done over the years). He didn't even say those things were important. In fact, in the case of the oatmeal, he explicitly told me it wasn't, and that something else was important to him instead.
But I desperately want the never-ending list of things I keep track of to matter to him. I want him to bow down to me in everlasting gratitude to my hyper awareness of his wishes and my superior knowledge of his cleaning wipe scent preferences. I want to be officially crowned the nicest, most thoughtful, most caring, awesomest wife ever. Yes, sir. A woman who knows her cinnamon spice from her maple brown sugar is a keeper. He's gotta stick to me like glue if he wants to get his oatmeal (or his cleaning wipes or anything else in his life) right. But if I start making mistakes... Oh. I could lose my crown! He could find out I'm a mere mortal — just a regular old average wife — and skip right out. Which is what leads me to stand in a grocery store staring at oatmeal for five minutes in sheer panic at my inability to get it just the way he's going to want it.
I take care Mark and other people that I love, in a good, loving way, but I also do it in a bad way. (Although fortunately not bad in the cop drama bad guy kind of way, with my fedora tilted menacingly over one eye, as I bark to my hit man, "Take care of the snitch, Joey.") I can be some slapstick girl scout heroine: so focused on the merit badge I'm going to win for being helpful that I insistently try to help a perfectly capable, able-bodied person across the street, tripping them and myself, scattering their groceries and causing scrapes and bruises all around (although generally less hilarity).
In fact — especially if we all do make it to the other side of the street safely (thanks to me, of course) — I often remain blissfully unaware. Sometimes the realization that I'm doing the bad, codependent kind of helping doesn't hit me until I'm sitting there, knocked flat on my ass, with my literal and metaphorical groceries scattered around me, angry that emsomeone/em (ok, my husband Mark) hasn't appreciated my spectacular helpfulness the way he should.
I guess this will teach me I should dump Mark's grocery preferences out of my head so I can free up some space for more important things, like how to do elementary school math so I can help my kids with their homework. And hey! Maybe they'll appreciate me instead...*
* Joking, of course.
This post was originally published at The Second Road.
0 comments:
Post a Comment