My husband thinks I’m trying to kill him.
Oh, this subtle paranoia has been going on for years — 21 years this Friday, in fact. Every blue moon I will hear the six familiar words, “Are you trying to kill me?” coupled with some scenario of how he thinks I am surely plotting his demise.
This time: Death By Bodywash.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
He walked out of the bathroom, half dressed for work, a towel in his hand left over from his morning shower. He smelled nice.
“You smell nice,” I told him, but apparently my compliment didn’t make up for my trying to kill him.
“If you go to the grocery store, will you please get me a bar of soap?” he asked. “I hate that darn body wash you buy because it gets in the bottom of the shower and one day I’m going to slip and break my neck.”
I looked at him, wondering if I should apologize for buying slippery bodywash, suggest that he just be a little more careful, or tell him again how good he smells. I settled on the latter.
“But look on the bright side,” I said. “You smell really good, all Irish Springy.”
Today bodywash. A few years ago, pillows and peanut butter.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he has said, more than once, as he climbed into our bed amid a pile of pillows of various size and cuteness. “Why do we need all of these pillows on the bed if we only sleep on one each? A man could suffocate with all these pillows on a bed.”
I have tried to explain that pillows make the bed look nice and comfortable, but he couldn’t seem to get past the frustration of having to excavate through a pile of fluffy squares each night like a rescue worker after an earthquake just to lie down. Thus, I compromised. We have only four unnecessary pillows on our bed now, but I still keep the others close by and throw them on there every now and then just to keep him on his toes.
“Are you trying to kill me?” he asked when I served him a non-recalled peanut butter sandwich during an infamous peanut butter recall, and when I over-dried his pants for the umpteenth time he feared I was trying to squeeze the life out of him with britches that were too tight. Little did he know, I wasn’t trying to kill him, just get him to do his own laundry. Score!
I would need an entire chapter to write about all the times I have allegedly tried to kill him while driving him innocently down the road, and let’s not even mention the number of times he has suffered mental anguish over not being able to find the remote control, a pair of socks, or the jar of mayonnaise. And with football season quickly approaching, I will most likely more than once be accused of trying to kill him when he walks into the den and I am watching a Lifetime movie on the big TV while half the SEC is on television.
Sigh. I know he doesn’t truly believe I’m out to do him any harm. I’ve kept him around for 21 years and hope for at least three times as many more. That said, I’d best think of a pretty good gift this year.
Do they still make it on a rope?
Contact columnist Mandy Flynn at firstname.lastname@example.org.