Little Things

This weekend Chris worked on our basement.   He painted and cleaned and built stuff.   I left him alone for most of the time because he seemed to have it under control.   And because there are no AC units in the basement and its hot down there.   But around 1:00 on Saturday, I started to get bored, so I moseyed on down to the basement to offer my painting services.   It was miserable.   I literally painted myself into this tiny corner and when I tried to turn around, I knocked over a bookcase of stuff, breaking my favorite oil burner.   Glass went everywhere, including into the paint can.   I reacted the only logical way I could think of:

I got mad at Chris.

So, I thrust the paint brush into his hands and stormed off.   Looking around for my next project, I decided that I would start cleaning out our storage room that is just off the basement.   Its been holding most of our moving boxes that we emptied but hadn’t broken down yet.   So I grab a box cutter and start hauling boxes out into the yard and cutting them down.   On my second box, Chris comes up and starts telling me how to break down the cardboard.   I reacted the only logical way I could think of:

I got mad at Chris.

“Now you’re going to start telling me how to cut up cardboard???   Leave me alone!   I can do it!”   I snap.

“Fine,” he snaps.   And he goes back into the basement to continue painting, leaving me with a pile of cardboard boxes, two dogs, and a box cutter.   After 2 or 3 more boxes (and several tennis ball throws for Molly), I suddenly realize that this job sucks.   Its hot outside and cardboard is a lot heavier than it looks.   I manage to finish breaking down the boxes, but I only got half of them thrown into the trash shed.   The rest I threw onto the driveway as I wandered into the house to find yet another project, with the silent promise to clean it up before Chris could see.

2 hours and 1 nap later, I woke up to see that Chris had finished the basement and it looked pretty spectacular.   He had also finished moving the boxes to the trash shed and broken them down much neater than my piles had been.   In his “spare” time he even took down my bathroom door and shaved some wood off the bottom so it would quit getting stuck on my floor mat.   I followed his trail of honey-do’s and found him outside, up under the back deck, hooking up our sprinklers. He looked up and smiled at me, asking how my nap was.   I waited a minute to see if that would be followed by a snide comment or a judgmental look, but those never came.

He had spent the whole day picking up after me, taking care of me, and generally making life easier for me.   And he was still happy to see me. There was no I-told-you-so, no guilt, no anger or frustration.   He was just glad I came out to see him.

It’s official.   I can’t live without him.   I mean, aside from the fact that I’m almost positive my heart would just stop beating if he weren’t in my life, I can’t live without him because I couldn’t practically function without him to pick me up, dust me off, and fix my mistakes.   Who would fix my AC units when they break or cover an entire wall in cork because I decide I want a bulletin board wall?   More important than any of that, who would do all of that and then at the end of the day STILL be happy to see me?   No one.   No one loves me like Chris does.   And I wouldn’t want anyone else to love me either.   I’m smitten.