I have this notion in my head that life would oh so better for me if only I lived on my own.
See in my head (the one stationed in the clouds) I am thinner and healthier and my house is cleaner and tidier and my social life is busier and better – all because I live alone. I also dress better and have more interesting hobbies.
I still hang on to this notion despite the fact that I did live alone and it was nothing like that. Okay, I did tend to eat salad for supper most nights (and still do) but I wasn’t thinner, my house was emptier but not cleaner (cat fur gets everywhere) and my social life involved spending most of my time with him.
Now he lives here and the idiot half of me wants to just lay the blame at his door, which is really my door so really I am blaming myself but I don’t want to say it like that because it makes me look bad to myself…
Okay so it’s all me.
I may have lost track of what I actually wanted to say here.
Oh wait, now I remember. I wanted to note how, this afternoon and with no prompting from me, he washed the floor. And it’s not the first time he’s done that either. In fact he does a lot around here. Dishes are his responsibility. He even does the washing (well he did until my pale pink panties turned purple because they were washed in the same load as the navy blue sheet which is not colourfast). He vacuums when the cat fur gets to much for his allergies and he washes the floor. He hasn’t quite mastered the art of scrubbing the toilet but the rest of the bathroom gets the once over. And even though it isn’t his cat, he has cleaned out the litter box.
In some circles these things would make him a saint *.
We both work full time. I get home much later than he does because I sometimes work late but also because traffic is appalling and sometimes a 35km trip takes 3 hours. Housework, then, is not really high up on my priority list you understand.
So it’s nice, really nice, to come home to someone who not only knows that I’ve had a long day and am dog tired but who actually does something helpful, like a load of laundry, WITHOUT having to be asked and asked again, and asked again sarcastically and asked yet again only now it sounds like nagging and then having to ask again but in a voice that is ever so slightly raised but comes off sounding like the high pitched screech of the nagging witch that you are.
It’s really nice.
So I’m writing this for my own benefit, for those other days when there just seems to be too much stuff about and not enough breathing room and I need a reminder of why I like having him around.