Welcome to the wilds! New Jersey for me was like crossing the border into Tijuana. Sure, the new lifestyle was crazy, but no one would ever admit to living there. When my husband’s job was relocated here in August 2010, we both were frightened. Now we’re learning about life, love, and marriage in this strange new culture. Feel free to tag along for the adventure.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

The Battle of The Band-Aid

In the townhome, my husband and I have discovered a new pleasure in life: not sharing a bathroom. For the first time, we have two. We originally conceived, however naively, to use only the master bath and leave the second for guests. Then, my husband discovered he liked both the lighting and the shower of the second bath better. He took it over… There was no mutiny. Gradually, I began to notice things like the tiny scissors and good tweezers disappear from one medicine cabinet and appear in another. Then, “the man tools” were displaced; until even the shampoos and conditioner that he uses were gone from my daily routine. He had deserted one bathroom for a brighter, larger pasture…and I was left with pure bliss.

Granted my bathroom is tiny, but I like to think of it as quaint. It’s cozy. Once the door is shut, I can reach all my cabinets, drawers, toilet and shower in one pirouette. To the right of my counter, I have a make-up basket and drawer. Underneath the sink, I have an entire double door home for my hair products, straightener, curling iron, curlers, and hair dryer. It’s glorious! And if by chance, I leave a light dusting of blush or powder on the counter there is no one screaming, “Eeck, there’s dirt all over the bathroom sink!”

In fact, my husband only visits this tiny paradise twice a day: to brush his teeth. He says it’s because we share the toothbrush base and he is being kind by leaving it in my bathroom. However, I know the truth. I have never seen a real rabid animal. I have only heard stories about foaming at the mouth, and my husband’s morning and night routine exemplifies that image. In one three minute session, the mirror, the counter and everything within a three foot radius of his mouth becomes covered in Crest.

I am not shaken by the minty fresh spackling across the wall…that’s why they make Windex and Clorox. However, something that has me shaking in my socks is the leftover band-aid. When he used to shower in my bathroom before he claimed another, he left his used band-aid at the base of my shower. I have not been frugal with my constant reminders that it needs to go with the rest of his “manly things” into his “manly den” at the end of the hall. However, he has not listened, and as the days pass I can only imagine the tiny microbial germs festering inside it.

Yet, I cannot bring myself to throw it out. After all, it is not his bathroom where it resides, but mine. I mean the United States would not let Canada leave their trash in Maine or Vermont. The Canadians might try, but there would be a battle, and the perpetrators would have to claim the stinking refuge that belongs to them. So in the American tradition, I shall not throw it away. Rather I am pitted against him, hunkering down in the trenches, preparing for The Battle of The Band-aid. He left it there thinking I would cave, but I have not. I will not. I raise my fist in competition and shout with the same resilience as John Paul Jones, “I have not yet begun to fight!!!!!!”

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