I’m annoyed, but maybe you can have a good laugh. My husband Doo came downstairs earlier than usual this morning, turned on all the lights and sat at the kitchen counter to go through bills. He even tried talking to me. What the heck? Doesn’t he understand I have a routine, nay, a ritual, that depends on 90 percent darkness, 100 percent silence and absolutely 0 percent other people?
Clearly, he does not, for when I said as much, he scoffed and proceeded to rip open envelopes as loudly as he could, right in front of my angry face. What a butt!
Incidentally, this was the second such encounter in less than 12 hours. Last night, when I’d already turned back into a pumpkin and was literally trying to sleep (eyes closed, weighted blanket tucked, sound machine a blast), Doo insisted on a fashion show (yes, a fashion show; he was dying to parade his new birthday clothes in every possible combination). With his stuff strewn across the room, including the bed, he kept walking in and out, asking, “How do these jeans look?” “Does this shirt wash me out?” I admit to enjoying his production, but seriously, I just wanted some ZZZs.
And complaining to Doo obviously doesn’t work. He’s a classic extrovert who needs dramatic stimulus 24/7 while I require the exact opposite, which is basically anything resembling a float-tank session. It’s an enigma, for sure.
In summary, my perfectly crafted morning and evening routines are being fire-bombed by a handsome bald guy in a new sweater vest with a dangerous aversion to online bill pay.
It’s OK. Go ahead and laugh.