Oh, the Mess

Why can't he just pick up his stuff? Like me. Well, sort of.

by Ruth Bergen

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One Saturday morning shortly after Brian and I were married, I made a disturbing discovery. Squeezing into the small space between the bed and the wall to tuck in a loose corner of the blanket,

I found a small mound of dirty socks.

What are all these socks doing here? I wondered, wrinkling my nose.

Okay, I'm not the most thorough gal with a vacuum. It was easy to ignore that small, out-of-the-way strip of carpet—creating the perfect hideaway.

Suddenly Brian's empty sock drawer made sense. I'd been baffled when, despite finishing several loads of laundry, his socks seemed mysteriously scarce.

When I questioned him, Brian explained that his evening ritual was to climb under the covers, pull off his socks, and drop them on the floor beside the bed.

This cleared up the mystery of why my husband owned 26 pairs of socks.

"And who will collect these socks?"

I quizzed. "The sock fairy?"

Brian shrugged. "Look at the bright side. At least they're all in one place!"

That made me feel so much better.

Of course, those socks weren't the only problem. There were the shirts left in the kitchen, papers on the table, tools not put away. And itsy bitsy whisker hairs scattered all over the sink. Though the list seemed endless, my patience wasn't. I pointed out. Reminded. Prodded. Suggested. But nothing changed.

Finally, after we'd been married three months, I decided it was time I clarified the "house rules." Again.

"We've got a problem," I announced. "When you leave your stuff all over the house, you disrespect me. How often do I have to ask you to clean up after yourself?" I paused, narrowing my eyes when he remained mute. "Are you even listening?"

"Aw, Ruth," Brian said. "I'm sorry. I really am."

Yes! I thought triumphantly. He finally gets it!

"By the way," Brian said with a smirk, pointing to the cushion beside him, "who does that belong to?"

I looked at the sweater, bunched carelessly at the end of the couch, and recalled stripping it off several nights earlier when I became too warm while watching TV. Uh-oh.

Immediately I went on the defensive. We're talking about you not me, I thought. Don't switch the focus in the middle of our conversation! "The point is," I snapped, "I pick up my mess and I pick up your mess. I'm just asking for help. I'm carrying the entire load."

I stomped off to our bedroom, muttering under my breath. The nerve of Brian, accusing me of being sloppy. That was his problem, not mine.

Still fuming, my gaze drifted over all the clutter. A plate with a half-eaten cookie. Shirts and jeans crumpled on a chair. Books strewn on the night stand. All mine. And socks scattered everywhere—black, red, striped. Mine.

Reluctantly, I thought about my behavior the last few months. I didn't like what I saw. My eyesight was clear when it came to chalking up Brian's transgressions. But I had a few blind spots when it came to recognizing my own. Though my pride resisted the revelation, I had to admit that Brian wasn't the one I needed to concentrate on changing.

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2007, Summer, Page 10

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