I’m restless by nature.
Charles used to get offended, and rightfully so, when I insisted on folding clothes, making the bed, or scrubbing the toilet during our “talks.” When we were first dating and enjoying those long phone calls where you find a way to sorta say how you really feel and stretch thirty minutes worth of conversation over the course of two hours, I would place the phone between cheek and shoulder and sort pots and pans, clean the fridge, sweep up the bathroom floor. He would ask, listening to the strange noises on the other end, often times my heavy breathing, ”what are you DOING?” I tried once to sit on the couch, holding the phone up to my ear with my hand. That worked. For five minutes, and then I was up trying to find my red shoes possibly lodged in the back of my closet. You can only imagine how our talks worked out when we got married and were living in a studio apartment with one couch. I took up simple pacing. It wasn’t good. I know how rude it is of me to expect someone be okay with the fact that when you start talking, I start moving away or do something distracting with my hands. But once I just broke down and told my sweet, sensitive husband, “I just can’t help it,” and kinda cried when I said it, he gave me a long hug and ever since we’ve been fine– Charles sits on the couch, talking away and calls out to me from whatever room I might be busying my hands in.
I think about this little understanding we’ve come to, and although it’s trite, it speaks for something. I think what I’ve always wanted is a partner who will meet me more than halfway, at certain necessary junctures, understanding and loving my weakness.
my house is usually cleaner after a phone call. this is a sweet post jen.