As women, we sometimes find it hard to understand how the opposite sex-so meticulous in their grooming of ridiculous things-like the grass surrounding the lamp post, can be so oblivious to their personal grooming habits. One would expect that scrupulously weed-whacking the perimeters of flower gardens would equip one with the dexterity required to shave. Not necessarily so.
My husband, God love him, is a wonderful man. He is loving, kind, generous, and has an incredible sense of humor. I could not have found a better catch. However, when it comes to grooming habits, his sainthood sprouts horns. Hubby has thick facial hair. Ideally, he should shave every day. By day four I am making little comments in anticipation of him taking my hints. On day five I blatantly ask him when he's going to shave.
He shaves on day six-most of the whiskers. There is almost always a tiny patch of sprouts that remains unshaven. Sometimes it's under his chin. Sometimes it's on his upper lip, and one of the pesky little whiskers curls its way inside his mouth. It drives me absolutely crazy!
And then there is the issue of his laundry-or shall I say lack thereof. With a large family, the washer and dryer run constantly. I will fold mounds of clothing, separated into meticulous piles. Guess whose pile is the smallest? You guessed it. My husband's pile contains the correct number of pairs of underwear to equal one per day, and corresponding socks as well. However, there is a definite void in the number of other clothing articles.
"Why wash it if it's not dirty?" he'll ask me.
"I've only worn it for a few hours," he'll say.
A few hours on Monday, a few on Tuesday, and several on Wednesday!
Now I'm the first to uphold the conservation of water and energy, so I am happy when the loads are light. But when I wear an article of clothing and it becomes speckled with grease, dribbled with ketchup, and smeared with ice cream, I believe it needs laundering-no matter how many hours it's been worn. There are weeks when I'm certain his garments will leap to life and stage their own production of Riverdance.
And lest I forget to mention it-the clutter that man distributes, without fail, to every room in the house is taking on its own life as well. Piles of manuals, magazines, unopened mail, and work papers litter the kitchen. Piles of old clothing, mending, and ugly Christmas presents he'll never wear line the baseboards in our bedroom. And piles of broken, discarded, and recyclable items decorate the garage and front porch. He won't put or throw anything away!
Oh, but those wheels do turn when I, in a fit of relentless upheaval, clean out closets and drawers, tossing everything that doesn't breath into the garbage can. I diligently top the cast-off items with layers of grocery bags and other refuse, only to find by bedtime-they're back! Yes, my husband who bedecks our home with garbage picks it, too.
My kids have recently brought to my attention the fact that Dad is improving with time. In fact my older kids bring the issue of Grandpa Gordon and Carol to my attention.
"Remember before they got married what Grandpa Gordon's house looked like?"
"Remember before they got married what Grandpa Gordon looked like?"
Yes, Carol and love seemed to heal his fashion and housekeeping faux pas. Perhaps mine will continue to reflect upon my husband. After all, it's only been about nineteen years!
Thank goodness love conquers all, because by the end of some days I'm convinced it's the only remaining bond we share. And when he's comfortably settled into our bed, wrapped from head to toe with a sheet-no blankets-and snoring so loudly I can hear him in the kitchen, I remind myself of his countless remarkable qualities, and of why I married him in the first place.
And then I insert the ear plugs-if I can find them under the junk he's left on the nightstand!