Valentines Day, Dig it?
Last night my husband and I almost got into a fight before making love. I relayed to him the low of my teaching day. A few boys keep sabotaging the urinals in the restroom and the custodians have had it. They are more than done with fishing out sunflower seeds, nuts, bolts, screws, and clothes pins from the yellow slurry.
Our mild manor-ed, and not-so-mild cleaning friends are more than done with it all. Magic erasers don’t appear to work on scrawled names on the pipe works written in green Sharpie. I think the offender should have at least done this in CURSIVE. Really! Still, the proof was still there the other day when I went into No Girls Land.
My husband only laughed at this, even though the truth is I will have to make uncomfortable bathroom noises through the phone receiver to these children’s parents. Ugh. Who wouldn’t be put in the mood by a story like this, right? Wrong.
But hubby was a sport. He retaliated my small talk attempt like Super Bowl Russel Wilson of the Sea Hawks. And then, in turn, I listened to his story. I am a special teams kind of girl from way back.
It goes like this: A nepotistic work acquaintance unethically punches into work for both himself and his wife. Swipes his and his wife’s name tag each morning. In this he cheats the company out of about ten minutes of work every day while wifey parks the car in a distant covered parking lot. Out of the snowy grip, I hear parts of this, but I am alwuz thinking on the sign I sabotaged outside the back door of Chef Jason’s hospital kitchen:
“Beyond this point (hair nets) HAIRLESS PETS required by law.”
I reaffirm. I love my imposed changes.
Among the exchange of work day reports, another confession surfaces. Talk of Super Bowl. Yep. I can’t seem to get away from this boy talk at school or at home. I find out that my better half, against his own IHC better judgement, unethically entered a gambling pool held on the loading dock. Scandalous! Suddenly, this is feeling way to Sky Masterson. Rocking an underground boat, he paid $20 and won $100. I mock roll play anger at my partner’s non-existent addiction to gambling. This is pretty fun.
However, I AM upset because I have to learn this thing waaaaay after the fact. Craps, because I am hurt. If it had been me who had won, I would have immediately made dinner reservations at the St. Regis with Chef Georges (for lack of a better name) and bought tickets to a Jewel concert. I would have taken him out. Given him a Valentine. Instead, I fake pout for a few moments. Then I think… why hold my breath? I need it for lots of heated breathing.
It think, it doesn’t pay to dig up the past. But if you do, make sure you choose the right shovel. Selecting the wrong spade is no straight of hearts, and causes problems on top of problems. Most often, even the shovels possess inherent flaws too. Those that are too small require intense work and are way too exhausting. A lot like a short-lived love session in which one lover’s pressure cooker has blown its top prematurely, accidentally, before the other lover’s crock pot has even warmed up.
Using a mis-sized tool is a lot like choosing a Little Tikes plastic shovel the size of a tiny spade. Ineffective even if it is coveted, and colorful. Worn out shovels are rusty and splinter in your hand. Can’t win in digging up the past though. Better to create a future in the present.
Don’t laugh. At times unsaid rules of engagement require couples to become two-year-olds even in the choosing of their dig tools . They enter into a nursery school of tug of war games over who’s is who’s. When they finally agree to sharing, they make digs. They end up slinging ugly names and put downs, debating trivial topics of no substance. This was my pathetic parents. They dug their own marital grave and lay in it for thirty or more years. All the time, the scoops they raised and turned in dredging up, rolled over some really ugly things.
Ouch. I swore an oath in my childhood to not get married. In my young adulthood changed my tune toward swearing not to be like “them.” I have pretty well succeeded in avoiding this sod of thing.
In following through with this metaphore, some shovels are so practiced that the cutting edge becomes dull from same old, boring rewarmed, preblessed frozen blah food. We do this to our own damnation. The futility becomes obvious. It is like searching desperately for a cap to a septic tank in frozen January winter ground. When lifted the sludge stinks in spite of frozen shut off olfactory, and with or without regular saw dust treatments and maintenance.
Something is definitely lost here. Love. Love for another at the cost of loving self too much.
Don’t get me wrong. My husband and I care for each other. We don’t fight. If we are to be faulted, it is because we are good stone wallers, and distract to obsessive hobbies. In better moments we default toward our children in being a family. In best moments we lock the door and light a candle.
Yes. As we leave Stupor Bowl behind and approach “Balance Times Day” I think the only think I want to dig up is the excitement of finding buried treasure in my marriage. Happy Valentines Day, Dear Hearts, everywhere!