So today it’s a reprise of the now-and-then marital whinge theme. Go away, this will be long, boring, and self-indulgent.
The other day, Gadget commented that I should go back on Zoloft. Because I’m such a grouch.
Darling, I’m just acting the way you usually act. See how nice it is to live with someone like that?
He doesn’t see it. He thinks he’s perfectly amiable, and I’m the one who is out of sorts. Granted, I am out of sorts; my tether is short, and I’m much more sensitive to tones of voice and what is conveyed with expressions than what is actually said with words. Zoloft certainly helped buffer me from all this.
Still, it would be nice if he’d acknowledge that he’s not always the most pleasant person on the face of the planet.
Perhaps I have a future with a long-term Zoloft relationship. Or marital counseling. Or both. Perhaps second trimester hormones are amplifying things for the time being. Or not.
One thing is apparent. Spending a morning in the land of extreme-pissed-offed-ness does no favors to one’s blood sugar, and therefore overall health. By the time I remembered to check, it was 110. Fasting. Not good. So it’s obviously bad for my health to stew, yet I just didn’t have the wherewithall to pull myself out of that funk, and took the low road, allowing myself to fume all morning.
It’s indulgent, I know. But good grief! I feel as though I don’t expect much, so if what little expectations I have aren’t met, I am immediately and thoroughly disappointed.
And how I don’t like disappointment.
Feeling a bit out of sorts over the fact that today is garbage AND recycle day, and a certain life partner was too lazy to put it out last night. I want it out on the evening prior to collection day. Always. Without fail. Rain or shine, wind or sleet, in sickness or in health. End. Of. Story. No exceptions. I’m very hard-nosed that way.
I noticed he wasn’t in bed around 4:30 a.m. Oh good, he’s up early to take out the trash. He climbed back into bed around 5:30 a.m. I inquired whether he was calling in sick today. Yes. Fine, I don’t mind. I hope you feel better soon. As long as you took the trash out. Back to sleep for me, for another 20 precious minutes. Upon arising, I notice the master bathroom trash is still full. Well, so he missed one. I can let that slide. Oh. The bedroom bin is also full. Starting to get annoyed. Downstairs, peeking out the window, the absense of bins on the curb sets me spinning into the depths of pissed-offed-ness. Yes, I could choose not to be angry, but I don’t. Instead, I fume. And stomp about gathering up all the various recycle and non-recycle bins. It’s not like I don’t have a morning routine in which I have a set amount of time to dress myself, dress the child, pack breakfast for the boy, pack breakfast and lunch for myself, load the car, take him to daycare, and drag myself to work, invariably a few minutes late. I don’t really have time to deal with the trash. And I don’t care that he’s feeling sick. I do all the rest of the household tasks, whether I’m sick or not. The laundry gets done. The cooking gets done. The dishes get done. The pantry gets stocked. The fridge gets stocked. Granted, I actually like to do these homemaker tasks, so generally, I’m FINE with the gross imbalance. But the shirking of the one regular task that I see as his responsibility sends me postal.
