Toothpaste Snails

We all have idiosyncrasies. And sometimes our idiosyncrasies bother those around us. It's a very simple fact of life. You've heard it said: If we were all alike, the world would be a very boring place.

The Jazzman comes home from his 12-hour-days on the railroad smelling of diesel fuel. He walks into our bedroom, to his side of the bed, drops his clothes on the floor, and then gets into a hot shower where he washes the hard day away.

And I don't mind.

I remember husband #1 complaining—a year or two into our miserable marriage—about picking my clothes up off the floor. (Hey, Mister, here's a news flash. You didn't have to pick them up. I would have gotten to them when I saw them.)

I was disabled; I grew up with in a household with a maid who came every day to take care of things like laundry and bed-making and house-cleaning. I never learned to do that stuff.

It bothered me (and still does, quite frankly) that I had this idiosyncrasy that bothered him so much. And it bothered me that he couldn't or wouldn't talk to me about it. When I look back, it's probably a miracle that the marriage lasted as long as it did (10 years).

So when I see the Jazzman's pile of clothes on the floor when I'm making the bed in the morning, I smile as I pick them up and carry them across the house to the laundry hamper.

I smile. I feel waves of gratitude. I dance a little jig.

After many years of being alone and lonely (or, alternatively, in a relationship and lonely), I have a wonderful, caring, loving, thoughtful man who snores beside me each night. I'm—quite possibly—the luckiest 61-year-old woman in the universe.

Did I say "snores beside me"? I read all the Facebook posts of friends and acquaintances who are complaining about their lack of sleep for their partners' snoring. I love it. "Why?", you gasp. I'll tell you.

I adored my daddy. For the first, oh, twenty years of my life, my daddy was the only person who made me feel there was any worth or value inside me. He worked very long days, usually leaving the house at 6:00 a.m. and returning around 11:00 p.m. I adored him and saw very little of him. But if I woke in the middle of the night and heard snoring coming from the next bedroom, I knew he was home, and I could continue my sleep in peace and security. (To type this today, many years later, brings tears to my eyes.)

When I hear the Jazzman's snores, I snuggle down a little deeper in our comfortable bed and count my blessings. How could I complain about such a wonderful sound?

My Good Husband (#4 - finally got it right) would complain about my leaving "toothpaste snails" in the sink. It was something I'd never been aware of before beginning to cohabit with him. Ever since, I've noticed them and always made sure to clean up after myself after brushing my teeth.

Now—in this life—I walk into the bathroom and notice toothpaste snails in the sink. Did I leave them? Did the Jazzman?

We're both aging. We can neither see nor hear as we once did. Or remember a damned thing. How'd that medicine cabinet door get opened and stay opened? Didn't I close it. Who can remember?!

So what do I do? Do I assume he left the snails and say something? Not on your life!! I probably left them and can't remember. And besides, if I didn't, and he actually left them, what are the alternatives? I can give him a hard time about it (probably in error) and possibly damage his feelings about me or about living with me. Or I can just scrub them off, while smiling and thinking how lucky I am that I've got a handsome man who still has all his teeth and cares enough about them to brush, floss and visit the dentist on a regular basis.

(But visiting the dentist on a regular basis—or not—is the subject of another relationship gone wrong, best told another time!)

I'll say it again. I'm the luckiest 61-year-old woman in the universe. Or maybe the luckiest woman of any age!!