Maybe It's Me?
Tue., June 13, 06:33 AM
Maybe it’s me? I’m not the type to assume that it’s always my fault, but I know I blame a lot on Husband. If I’m working on reducing stress, it’s worth looking at my own attitude.
We know I’m compulsive. Heck, I’ve been reading the same book for a couple of weeks now; I’m not happy with it. Had I borrowed it from the public library, I probably would have returned it by now and chosen another. But I paid for this one, higher prices for large print too. So I have to finish it. I probably will, but since I only read a couple of pages at one time, it will take awhile. Compulsive.
Nevertheless, Husband is wearing me down. In general, I try not to blame him for his condition, even though it really and truly was caused by such self-destructive practices as smoking and eating the wrong kind of food. What upsets me is his attitude – both lazy and selfish. He automatically fights just about anything we want him to do. (We includes U.D., who willingly picks up the discussion when I’ve had enough.)
For example, he decided last week that he needed a haircut. I agreed to take him on Friday. I woke him up and gave him breakfast, then allowed him a couple of hours to read the newspaper or whatever he wanted. Then I asked him to get ready to go. Nothing is ever that simple; it took him another half hour or so. He wanted to know why I was “rushing him.” His assumption is that I have nothing better to do with my time.
I pulled the car out of the garage so that he wouldn’t have to go through the cellar. He came down the front steps and asked me to drive closer to the sidewalk for him. I did; I’m not going to fight over five feet. When we got to the barber’s, I pulled the car forward so that he wouldn’t open the door onto a pole or a planter. “Why didn’t you park closer?” Again, it’s five feet, but this time I just told him to go inside. Joe wasn’t busy, and the haircut went without incident. Husband was just as slow getting back into the house. And he was exhausted.
On Saturday he was scheduled to go clothes shopping. Nothing he owns is presentable, considering the amount of weight he has gained. U.D. had promised to take him. The clothes are a Father’s Day gift to him. Taking him to the store was a gift to me. Buying clothing is far more threatening than a haircut, and he began to procrastinate. Although he had just finished breakfast, he wanted toast and coffee before he got ready to go.
The shouting match that ensued was unbelievable. U.D. has been unstable and histrionic for about thirty years (another story altogether), but you sure could tell from whom she inherited it. In short, he didn’t want any new clothes, didn’t want to meet our future daughter-in-law’s parents, didn’t want to go to the wedding. U.D. picked up the phone and audibly “left a message” for Son that “Daddy doesn’t love you enough to make the effort.” (Husband doesn’t understand how new phones operate and didn’t know she hadn’t made the connection. Ahem.) He stormed into his room.
He did open the door after a few minutes, just as I was going by, and I just said I didn’t want to talk to him any more. He must have apologized sufficiently to U.D., because she did indeed take him out. She parked as close to the store as she could, but he was breathless by the time they got inside.
She found a fitting room so he could sit down, and for the next hour she carried items back and forth for him to see. In most cases he didn’t even both to try them on, except for the belts that were all “too small.” And that, of course, explains why the one he chose let his pants fall down… Most of the stuff he rejected because he didn’t like the color or the pattern. She wanted him to try on jackets just for size, but that didn’t work too well; anything wide enough was way too long. (I hope those shirts fit him.)
He was really ticked off because she wouldn’t take him to buy doughnuts on the way home. One of the few things he’ll notice is a Dunkin’ sign. HELLO? With a fifty-inch waist you don’t get doughnuts!
Once again, he was exhausted by the time he got home. Poor fellow, you think. He really is getting feeble. Wait.
As I was taking out the trash yesterday, he handed me a package wrapped in a couple of trash bags. “What’s this?” “Flsst tube.” “What?” He finally got his meaning across, although he never pronounced the word very well even when he had teeth: a used fluorescent tube. From where? He had changed the light over the bathroom sink. I could have screamed, but I just said thank you. And then I mentioned, you should be thanking G-d you didn’t fall.
He climbed on a stepstool and a chair while we were out at the store; he waited because he knew we would have stopped him if we were home. I would happily pay someone to change the bulb, just to be sure he is safe.
Y’know, I could have managed to go to Boston by myself if I didn’t have to drag him along. I could have left him home if he could be trusted. Why am I even trying? We’re going to board the cat the weekend of the wedding. Why can’t I board the old man too?
I think maybe this crazy stuff is catching. And the doctors wonder why I’m depressed.
