Opposite Ends of the Spectrum

A couple of lives ago, I lived in western Loudoun County, Virginia, and commuted to K Street where I managed all the databases for a large law firm. The commute was 60 miles, two hours each way, every day. I rode the commuter bus from Purcellville, rising at 4:30 to get to the bus at 5:30. I would walk into my office a few minutes before 8:00. Leaving at 4:00, I'd be back at my car around 6:30, and then would spend the next two-and-a-half hours traveling around Waterford, Purcellville, Hillsboro and Middleburg giving piano lessons to the offspring of friends. I had taught these children before I got the job in D.C., and felt I had an obligation of friendship to continue this service for my friends.

I would finally arrive home around 9:30. Sitting in the sink, rising a foot above the top of the sink and overflowing on all available counterspace, would be all the dishes that had accumulated since 5:35 that morning. Sitting on the couch would be [lazy] husband #3 and [lazy squared] 16yo stepson. (Okay, in #3's defense, I have to say he wasn't lazy outside the home, just inside. He believed everything outside the house was man's work and everything inside was woman's work. And let the record show that at this point in his life he was only working part-time.) I would say hello in as kind a voice as I could muster, then move into the kitchen and spend the next half hour cleaning and straightening, before falling into bed at 10:00 only to start the whole routine again in the morning.

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You're probably wondering why I took the job in D.C. if I had a successful career as a piano teacher. Because #3 told me I wasn't bringing in enough money. How much money was he bringing in at that time? Oh, that would be a big fat zero. And yes, I did put up with this nonsense for two-and-a-half years, until [lazy squared] severely learning-disabled stepson threatened to shoot me when I told him to do the laundry that had piled up in his room to the height of three feet. After coming home every night for two months afraid for my life, I called it quits. And yes, there were guns and ammunition available in the house, and yes, I did ask #3 to lock them up, and no, he couldn't be bothered. Live and learn.
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So what's the other end of the spectrum?

Mr. Match came over for dinner on Saturday night. We sliced and diced together and had a lovely evening. Sunday afternoon he called and apologized for not helping me clear the table. He was concerned that he had been thoughtless. Really!

I've said it before; I'll say it again. It's all relative!

(And I salute the U.S. Air Force and previous wives and fiancées for making this neat and clean, thoughtful and considerate man what he is today. I'm certainly the winner of this round!)