Simple Acts Mark Us
For better or for worse
We can easily get lost in the meta-identity of who we are. For example:
What’s our political party affiliation?
Do we believe in God?
Do we live a “green” life?
Do we meditate? Practice mindfulness?
Who are our heroes? Our villains?
The list of important questions is long and, in many ways, defines us.
But then there’s the other stuff. It’s the stuff that my husband and I have teased, cajoled, and poked each other about for decades.
The stuff is small and seemingly insignificant, but it also speaks loudly about who we are.
Some examples follow.
I load the dishwasher, making sure to cram everything in, even if dishes overlap. I recognize the shoddy disorder.
He loads the dishwasher like the engineer that he is. Size, shape, and water flow are all accounted for. Silverware has an order, too.
His way has a low rejection rate. My way is faster.
I do laundry like it’s a religion — almost daily.
Were he in charge of laundry, my husband would wash clothes when we were down to our last pairs of underwear, at which point he would ask himself,
“Do I do the laundry or buy more underwear?”
Six months into our marriage, I understood his inclination, and we horse-traded.
As a solo consultant, I can go from feast to famine. I sometimes think I have just experienced my last project with nothing coming around the corner. Anxiety will follow.
He believes business has cycles. I should know this since I’m the one with the MBA (which I translate to Master of Bsh**t). His philosophy:
Do your best, be patient, and recharge your engine for when the business hits.
Yes, his approach is quite sane and healthy.
About recharging our engine… I am driven to seek order and cleanliness, no matter my fatigue. In some odd way, the process and its result recharge me.
He says the mess will always be there. Cleaning takes time away from the important task of relaxing.
When our children were infants and it was nap time, I scurried around to reclaim the house. He often took a nap.
At the ripe age of 66, I can say that his strategy was better. It’s one I’ve passed along to our daughter.
Small addendum: He cleans up after dinner, but on his time, not mine. I have learned to let dishes sit. He will get to them, I know.
I might ask him, “Which shoes look better?” and he will pick.
I will then ask more questions about why, and he will look at me as if he already answered the question.
Because he did.
Topics have more duration for me. He solves and moves on.
I can stay on the phone for longer. He can listen better.
In a bad moment, I might finish someone’s sentence because it’s taking so dang long. He never does.
My 2024 New Year’s resolution was to never finish people’s sentences. I do (or did) that too often — especially if you’re a slow-talker.
I am much, much better now, but still have room for improvement.
He taught me almost everything about dogs and convinced me to bring furry creatures into our family.
We’ve had two dogs. When we mourned the passing of our first dog, I cried and cried and cried. My husband foresaw what would become our loss and was proactive in convincing me to get another dog.
Teddy entered our family when Nemo was 11 and was three when we said goodbye to Nemo. Teddy and I grieved together as he would incessantly lick my face.
My husband and I both love dogs, but I treat Teddy like he is one of our kids. My husband treats Teddy like the dog that he is.
Thirty-six years into marriage, I can say that the differences we broker aren’t about money and usually aren't about kids (though occasionally, I am considered too soft.)
Our differences are in the small acts of daily living. The news we read, the way we cheer up our kids, how we relax, the exercise we enjoy, and our vision about our future come up repeatedly as unique definers of who we are.
Sometimes, our differences can be grating. It’s what I call “the pebbles in our shoes.” Sometimes, we laugh about those pebbles.
Humor continues to be our best medicine, which is why I knew that a rubber duckie in the dishwasher was the absolute perfect image to start this piece. A small adlib of the song follows:
“Rubber Duckie, you’re the one
You make living lots of fun…
Rubber Duckie, I’m awfully fond of you.”
If you can sing or say it and, either way, if you can mean it, you are in a great position to celebrate the pebbles.
They’re not going anywhere.
Good humor and the kind of self respect that knows better than to take itself too seriously are two giant traits that keep the small stuff small. Congratulations
LOL. I am with your husband. My favorite saying is: "If I don't have to take it to the bank, it doesn't matter." That is another way of saying don't sweat the small stuff. That said> One time a cop stopped me,. Him " Where are you coming from?" Me, " Home." Him, "Where are you going?" "Me, "Home". He became visibly annoyed. So was I. I wont expound on the rest of the conversation. MOST of the time it doesn't matter. LOL