Small Things. By M.M.Wake
It’s the small things in life that scupper you, send you over the edge. It’s funny that isn’t it?
Take me and my bloke. I would have walked over water for that man. No, truly, I would have. Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no river wide enough, as the song goes. Or something like that anyway.
Talk about breaking the camel’s back. We’d been through so much, So Much Together. Every type and kind of crisis we had suffered through and survived. Together.
Lack of money, lack of food, too much talking, not enough talking, infidelities, alcohol, drugs, deaths, divorces, you name it we had been through it. And survived.
Then this, this mere trivia, this flotsam , this insignificance, this speck of dust in the eye of god, and whoosh, suddenly you’re knocked off your feet and left floundering, blind and shot through whilst trying to make sense of it all.
With us it was Yorkshire Puddings. Yes, I know, but I did say it was the small things.
For weeks we had both been working hard. We had gotten through the last year by surviving on our wits, our grace and something I think they call love, whatever that might be?
I had learned to be tolerant. Tolerant of the dog hairs (not my dog) and muddy paw prints and walking boots; tolerant of the messy bathroom, wet bathroom floors, soggy towels and shower curtains, shaving stubble in the sink, not to mention the state of the toilet. No, I won’t mention the state of the toilet.
Then there was the bedroom, the unmade bed, washed and ironed clothes strewn across the room and not put away, the piles of papers strewn over the floor and the worst thing, books lying open and face down, their poor spines cracked and groaning. I would carefully gather these up and close them gently, placing a book mark at the once opened pages.
I didn’t mind when coming home from a week working away to find the kitchen floor filthy, covered in dog and mud, the dishes, dirty, piled high in the kitchen sink. The living room floor disgusting, the new Indian rug, covered in more dirt and dog hairs.
At the beginning of our relationship I had made the mistake of pointing these things out. I soon realised that everything was my fault and that I was fussing too much, that I was disempowering by trying to do everything myself, no wonder other people didn’t bother doing jobs themselves!
So of course I stopped doing the jobs, only to find that the washing and ironing pile grew higher, the whole house became dirtier and we soon began to run out of clean dishes.
I tried to point this out but of course I soon realised the error of my ways and that it was my fault for nagging, giving people lists of jobs to do. Didn’t I realise people need to relax when they come home?
So in the end I just shut up and did the jobs myself and kept quiet.
Everything was great and I soon realised that this was the secret to a happy life, how to survive living with someone else, the key to harmony.
Occasionally I became too tired and a little bit manic with the heavy workload. I was soon told that I needed to relax and not work so hard, so I smiled and tried to hide the strains brought on by overwork.
It was actually OK for a while and we rubbed along nicely for another few months.
Then it happened. The Yorkshire pudding incident. You can laugh.
There were 12 puddings you see, 6 each. I believe in fairness. He was about to bite into another pudding when I reminded him that there were 6 each. Throwing the pudding back into the serving dish he cleared his plate from the table. It was my fault. I had spoiled the dinner.
He didn’t know I was COUNTING the puddings. How dare I!
Well I was.
I’ve got three years left. I could be out in 6 months on parole if I behave myself. I stabbed him through the heart with a carving knife you see. It was the only way to resolve the issue.
I told you it was the small things.
I mean, seven Yorkshire Puddings, that’s just ridiculous!
Copyright M.M.Wake 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/25151/small-things to download
Take me and my bloke. I would have walked over water for that man. No, truly, I would have. Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no river wide enough, as the song goes. Or something like that anyway.
Talk about breaking the camel’s back. We’d been through so much, So Much Together. Every type and kind of crisis we had suffered through and survived. Together.
Lack of money, lack of food, too much talking, not enough talking, infidelities, alcohol, drugs, deaths, divorces, you name it we had been through it. And survived.
Then this, this mere trivia, this flotsam , this insignificance, this speck of dust in the eye of god, and whoosh, suddenly you’re knocked off your feet and left floundering, blind and shot through whilst trying to make sense of it all.
With us it was Yorkshire Puddings. Yes, I know, but I did say it was the small things.
For weeks we had both been working hard. We had gotten through the last year by surviving on our wits, our grace and something I think they call love, whatever that might be?
I had learned to be tolerant. Tolerant of the dog hairs (not my dog) and muddy paw prints and walking boots; tolerant of the messy bathroom, wet bathroom floors, soggy towels and shower curtains, shaving stubble in the sink, not to mention the state of the toilet. No, I won’t mention the state of the toilet.
Then there was the bedroom, the unmade bed, washed and ironed clothes strewn across the room and not put away, the piles of papers strewn over the floor and the worst thing, books lying open and face down, their poor spines cracked and groaning. I would carefully gather these up and close them gently, placing a book mark at the once opened pages.
I didn’t mind when coming home from a week working away to find the kitchen floor filthy, covered in dog and mud, the dishes, dirty, piled high in the kitchen sink. The living room floor disgusting, the new Indian rug, covered in more dirt and dog hairs.
At the beginning of our relationship I had made the mistake of pointing these things out. I soon realised that everything was my fault and that I was fussing too much, that I was disempowering by trying to do everything myself, no wonder other people didn’t bother doing jobs themselves!
So of course I stopped doing the jobs, only to find that the washing and ironing pile grew higher, the whole house became dirtier and we soon began to run out of clean dishes.
I tried to point this out but of course I soon realised the error of my ways and that it was my fault for nagging, giving people lists of jobs to do. Didn’t I realise people need to relax when they come home?
So in the end I just shut up and did the jobs myself and kept quiet.
Everything was great and I soon realised that this was the secret to a happy life, how to survive living with someone else, the key to harmony.
Occasionally I became too tired and a little bit manic with the heavy workload. I was soon told that I needed to relax and not work so hard, so I smiled and tried to hide the strains brought on by overwork.
It was actually OK for a while and we rubbed along nicely for another few months.
Then it happened. The Yorkshire pudding incident. You can laugh.
There were 12 puddings you see, 6 each. I believe in fairness. He was about to bite into another pudding when I reminded him that there were 6 each. Throwing the pudding back into the serving dish he cleared his plate from the table. It was my fault. I had spoiled the dinner.
He didn’t know I was COUNTING the puddings. How dare I!
Well I was.
I’ve got three years left. I could be out in 6 months on parole if I behave myself. I stabbed him through the heart with a carving knife you see. It was the only way to resolve the issue.
I told you it was the small things.
I mean, seven Yorkshire Puddings, that’s just ridiculous!
Copyright M.M.Wake 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/25151/small-things to download
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