I knew that a line had been crossed the day my husband suggested I could more efficiently organize the pots and pans. They do reside in the kitchen after all, a heretofore unbreached somewhat-oasis where I have always been left to my own devices--at least until meal time when the expectation is palpable that a repast involving meat and potatoes should be materializing soon.
My husband--God, may she bless him--means well. His skill as a problem-solver has served him well as a small-town businessman over 30-plus years. His talent to take charge and make hard decisions earned him the respect of his competitors and the loyalty of staff. His is the unmistakable Type A personality that emerges in difficult situations, that garners envy, if not necessarily love.
I have loved him, though, through his stresses and abrasiveness and hyperactivity because when he came home at the end of the work day, he did not want to talk about his day. Perhaps it weighed heavy on his mind but it was always shut into a separate compartment away from me and the kids and the house.
At home, I was pretty much on my own due to his long work days and his commitment to team sports and community volunteerism. I learned to fend for myself, call a plumber, stickhandle through parent-teacher interviews, deal with contractors, feed everyone and, yes, keep the pots and pans organized. So it was with not a small amount of trepidation that I watched as he sold his business a couple of years ago and commenced to work part-time.
For a long time, he seemed to be sleeping in a chair whenever I came into the house. How could anyone take three naps a day and still sleep at night I wondered. I overheard him telling everyone who asked that he was enjoying his semi-retirement because he no longer had to think about the business when he came home.
It seemed to me that he would need something substantial to think about in its place. I encouraged him to join the library. He built shelves. Mostly very high shelves that I cannot reach. Anyway, we now have enough shelves.
He cleaned the garage, a lot, and became a little obsessed with vermin--mice, squirrels, raccoons, skunks--that might invade his shed. He started driving REALLY slowly so that he could safely gawk around on his trips into town. I had to tell him he needed to at least drive the speed limit if he wanted me to be in the vehicle with him.
But all these proclivities did not really affect my sphere of influence. I carried on as usual, trying to ignore the snoring coming from the recliner. Until his comment the other day about how I should set up the kitchen.
The potential for a turf war is a little bizarre in that I have been begging him for years to take over some of the cooking. To no avail. I contend that the occasional barbecued burger does not constitute sharing the culinary duties. So if I thought letting him organize the tools would lead to an urge to use them, I would happily back out of the kitchen. Maybe right in to the recliner.
Sadly, in my heart, I recognize this latest project as just another iteration of The Boss. He has always been in charge and underlings have always done his bidding. Trouble is...well, everyone knows the trouble spot here. Whether my husband, highly intelligent in oh so many areas, will ever figure this out is debatable.
I calmly looked at him over the counter as I stood up after placing a skillet under the oven-- exactly where it has been for all of our married life and will continue to be--and suggested that some things were better left unorganized.
And some lines should never be crossed.
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