After he puts his contacts in, he leaves the disposable packets on the bathroom sink — every morning! “Do you need theeeeese?!” I holler, one hand in toss mode. I know the one time I don’t ask it will be his very last pair that he hadn’t had a chance to put in yet and he’ll be blind for the day and oh god, why didn’t I just ask…and so I do. EVERY MORNING.
“Nooooooo,” comes his response like clockwork. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living with the 13-year-old version of J., like he’s traveled back to the awesome 90s and is going to come strolling into the bathroom in his soccer jersey and mullet…well it wasn’t really a mullet, just some sort of hair tail growing off the back of his head. But anyway, “Why is it so hard to throw them away?!” I nag while I do an exaggerated step and arm swing towards the trash can like I’m pitching a softball in slow mo. “Watch me!”
He smirks. It also drives me crazy that he drops his dirty clothes right next to the hamper, right…next…to…the…hamper. And when he insists that making the bed is a futile effort, “We’re just going to crawl back in later.”
“It’s the focal point of the room,” my OCD snaps back. I’m the type of girl that cannot get dressed unless the bed is made. Messy bed, messy head. Yeah, that’s me.
So I’ve taken on the role of cleaning lady and launderer (as in clothes, not money…at least not yet) and he’s the top chef in our kitchen. Fair trade, minus the nights he calls Papa Johns!
What drives you nuts about your man?