My husband Larry and I had a cocktail party to go to on Saturday night. It’s an annual thing at a friend’s house – someone we don’t get to see very often during the year, now that all our kids are older and we spend all our time driving them around. Other people show up whom we also rarely get to see, so it is a pleasant yearly reunion of sorts.
So, at 6:45 Saturday evening, Larry headed upstairs. “Oh, yeah,” I thought. “I should start getting ready, too.” Upon reaching the bedroom, however, I found that the floor in front of the master bathroom and closet was covered by things that Larry had just pulled out from under the sink. ALL THE THINGS. A veritable cornucopia of Q-Tips, deodorants, razors, panty liners, and hair appliances were blocking access to my dress-up clothes, my make-up, and my hair goo. The bathroom door was closed, and I could hear banging going on.
“What happened?” I called to Larry. “Was something leaking?”
“No,” he called back. “I’m just fixing the drain.”
Fixing the drain…
“You mean the one that has been clogged all month?” I asked.
“Yeah, that one.”
People, I had to go into the other bathroom and sit down with my head between my knees. The man formerly known as my beloved had just spent a good 4 hours relaxing on the couch with a book – 4 hours during which the urge to fix a long-clogged drain had not once seized him. But now? Right before a party? Hey, why not?
[/nextpage] [nextpage title=”Page 2″ ]Now, perhaps Larry thinks I am naturally beautiful and isn’t aware that this face takes a bit of work if I am going to go out in public. Or maybe he wrongly assumes that I keep my party clothes somewhere besides the master closet. Or maybe he is just a passive-aggressive psycho who likes to destroy the bathroom minutes before his wife needs it to get ready for a fancy party.
And yes, I do think it’s that last one, actually.
I returned to my formerly functional living quarters and let loose with all the reasons that attempting to fix a clogged sink 45 minutes before a social engagement is a BAD IDEA. Larry – apparently sensing displeasure in my tone – left the bathroom, muttering, “I was just trying to help,” as if he had the right to feel aggrieved. And then he acted huffy because I threw him out of the bedroom area altogether while I got dressed.
Marriage: For better or for worse, people, but not for watching your middle-aged spouse struggle into Spanx and support hose. Just…no.
This post was originally published on The More, The Messier.
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