For the past several years, I have abstained from making Near Year’s resolutions. That’s worked well for me as I haven’t suffered any shame for failing to follow through with my resolutions.
This year, however, I’ve resolved to organize my kitchen cabinets. I have a small kitchen with very little cabinet space and I’m tired of stuff that I can’t see, like the 7 large cans of crushed pineapple that I didn’t know I had. Every time I reach for a spice, half a dozen other spices tumble out. And I have two (!) full jars of Anise seeds. What the hell did I buy the first one for? Probably the same stupid recipe that I never actually cooked, since both jars are still sealed. Also, most of my cabinet space is way too high for me to reach. It looks good, but I’m not as graceful as I once was. Hauling myself up on a chair to reach the back of the top shelves is . . . actually getting up there isn’t bad. It’s getting down again that is a bit dicey. I have this grabber-thing (second cousin to “The Clapper”), about which my kids tease mercilessly. It’s handy, but has a tendency to shove things to the back, where they are out of sight, out of mind. I have two jars of Harvard Beets. Like anyone in this house, including the dog is going to eat that. What was I thinking?
It’s been cathartic. The whole family has gotten a laugh out of me organizing all this stuff. And I’m satisfying some of my inner OCD urges in a healthy, productive manner. It’s a wreck now, but soon, everything will be organized and wonderful. I just know I’m going to be able to cook something wonderful just as soon as that happens because I’m going to be floating on the clouds of success!
My husband and I had a serious talk last night. He lied to me about something so stupid – he’s supposed to be taking a course of antibiotics – and I worry that he isn’t. Rightfully so, as it turns out. He was embarrassed to be caught in a lie. It doesn’t happen often because I almost always believe him. I pointed out that while I’m very open with him about my inner thoughts and feelings, even beyond what’s connected to sexual sobriety, and I resent that he does not share himself freely with me.
That little vignette puts me in the role of the good wife and him in the role of liar. But here’s what I know to be true: if I was not so accepting of bullshit, it’s more likely that he’d be taking his medication properly. That doesn’t mean I’m going to hand his medicine to him every morning. That’d be co-dependent. Or not. I mean, let’s face it. I love this guy. He hates taking pills. Maybe handing him his medicine would be loving.
Sometimes I wonder if we “recovering” couples worry too much about some of this shit. I’m going to hand him his medicine for a few days.