Last night I began packing up my shit... AGAIN. Same stuff...the same boxes, even. I'm glad to be doing it, but it's a bit tedious to be doing it again so soon.
I have to say that a lot of this stuff seems a lot less important than it did when I packed and unpacked it seven months ago. I'm looking around at the prospect of re-packing it all and think "Jeez, couldn't I have just left all the little knick-knack crap in boxes? What was I thinking?" But at the time it seemed really important to have all my stuff around me, all placed and arranged and familiar. I remember that...I can respect that.
But damn, I wish I didn't have to pack it again.
Last night it was books. And though I didn't bring a LOT of books with me from the hundreds that are now in storage, nevertheless, it's a good three or four boxes worth... and some of them will not be making the trip to the new house. I sat down last night and listed a bunch of them for sale on Amazon. Another stack of Grayson's books will get dropped off at the library for their sale. And I suspect that after I get settled in the new space, I will be making another sizeable donation, and probably will have another marathon Amazon session. I won't have room in the new house for a lot of book cases, see. Though I'm tempted to put them up in the funky little "secret room" off Grayson's bedroom. It could be like a diminutive library, just 3 feet wide and 9 feet long.
We'll see. I expect I'll be in that house for some 2 or 3 years. So it makes sense this time to get comfortable. And for me that means having my books around me.
And my dogs. I am dog-sitting Kobi and Flower this weekend while Grayson and his dad are at the cubscout camp-out. Friday when I went over to feed them I was frankly a little shocked at how dirty and ragged they looked. Flower is brown with dust and dirt and unshed undercoat. Kobi is just filthy. They were delighted to see me, and I to see them. They crowded into my arms and pushed at me and panted and wriggled with joy. Kobi wouldn't even eat, she was so busy just being near me. So I just held her on my lap while Flower ate. After I fed them, I sat on the back step and spent a good 15 or 20 minutes just rubbing big handfuls of fur out of Flower's coat.
Howard, the neighbor, came out and said hello, somewhat uncomfortably. I guess it's awkward to talk to me. At first I thought he wasn't even going to say hello. But he did at last and told me that the dogs were glad to see me and that they were "lonely." By that I guess he means that they are pretty much just yard dogs now. G probably doesn't let them in at night until 10 or so, and then just puts them out again in the morning. I guess he's doing okay by them. They are fed and sheltered, and he does bring them in at night. But I can tell they are starved for attention. Each time I see them I assure them it's just three more weeks now. Three weeks and our little family will be back together, in a home of our own.
When I was there I looked around and realized there is still a lot of stuff that needs to be dealt with, one way or another. There are boxes of family photos, a whole filing cabinet of papers, random bits of furniture to decide the fate of, and a basement full of Christmas decorations, luggage, tools.... It was disheartening to realize how much still has to be sorted out over there -- a process I'm not looking forward to. I remind myself that this is the end of it. After this last exhausting divvying and packing, no more. Our lives will be well and truly divided and except for Grayson, there will be no ties that bind. I'd like to believe so, anyway. At the very least there will be no more brick and mortar reminder of all that is broken and lost.
When I think of how I felt when we first bought that house...how I loved it. How I believed we would live there for the rest of our lives. It squeezes my heart like a fist. I can hardly bear to look at the knobs on the kitchen cabinets... that I picked out myself and screwed each one into place. Going into Grayson's old room is also painful. I peeled the old rose-printed wallpaper off with my fingernails, glued all the glowing stars to the ceiling, made for him a little boy's room that any little boy would love to have. No, it doesn't bear thinking about. And soon it will all belong to someone else. I hope they can overcome the curse and make of it a home filled with love and joy.
But today is too beautiful a day to think that way. The sun is out. Birds are singing. Soon I will have a yard and garden again. A neighborhood. I'll be able to go out and plant things, pull weeds, water. It will do me a lot of good to be able to get outside again and work in the dirt.
So... here's what I was thinking, as I was packing books yesterday. (Besides "Jesus! Really? Did I have to bring all these???") I was thinking that Domesticity Spoils a Man.
It's like this. I was thinking of B. I enjoy being with him. Enjoy his company, enjoy spending long hours with him cooking or watching movies or ... whatever. And then I'm glad when he goes home. Seeing him is a treat. Not my regular diet. But I sense that being with him all the time, day in and day out, thumping along in our dull domestic routines, would take all the fun out of it. He would be parked in front of the football game, playing his guitar, while I did the dishes, and I'd be resentful. Or else I'd be after him to help me make dinner or do laundry or pick up his socks or stop squeezing the toothpaste in the middle or whatever other little domestic thorn was niggling at me... and he'd be resentful. Men are like dessert, or trash novels, or UV rays. They feel great for short periods of time. But too much will make you sick, or crazy, or miserable. You can't live on a steady diet of them.
Then there's this. Domesticity comes naturally for women. We're hard-wired for home-making. Some more than others, I acknowledge. I myself am at the shallow end of that particular gene pool. I can tolerate a lot of mess and disorder before the domesticity gene kicks in. But for good or ill, in the final analysis, I like to have things the way I like to have them. But I believe that for men, domesticity is not a natural state. Wiping counter tops and picking up towels from the bathroom floor just doesn't come naturally to them. They'll do it for us to make us happy only as long as they are not expected to. But once they move in, it's no longer a favor they do to impress us, or to hide their otherwise filthy existences... it's their full time job. And they resent it.
Meanwhile, we find that we are now raising an extra child, expected to be the site foreman and chatelaine for the entire household, telling everyone what their responsibilities are. And we resent that they won't come up with it on their own. We don't want to be in charge. We only want the shit to get done, so the department of health doesn't come and shut us down. And we don't want to be responsible for anyone but ourselves. Nobody wants to clean up after someone else. Even a man will resent that. Unless of course, we're doing it for him. Then he barely notices.
No. No, domesticity ruins a man. It turns him into something passive-aggressive, lazy and shiftless. I much prefer to let him keep his own digs, and stay out of mine. That way I can have my own haven, as clean or dirty as I want it, with no-one but myself to blame. And he can have his, for which I am not responsible, nor am I obliged to live in it.
There. Got that off my chest. The best of all possible domestic arrangements, I believe, is to live next door to one another. That way, you can always just go home.
I suppose I will never get married again. Most people assume that if you get married, you'll be co-habiting, and I have a dread of that. Wonder how many people are married and living in separate homes? Happily and by choice, I mean. Surely there are some. Well, if I were ever again to inspire a man to believe he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me, which hardly seems likely... I hope he lives nearby.
No comments:
Post a Comment