THE PICK UP

As I go into our bedroom every night, I have to pick up my sloppy husband’s underwear. It has infuriated me for a year. I’ve yelled; I’ve pleaded, cajoled. I’ve threatened, used the silent treatment and have yet to see a reaction. He doesn’t complain, has never taken a swing at me. What he does, he does well. He puts on a deaf/mute act. He doesn’t seem to see me, doesn’t know I exist.

I’ve taken him by the hand, twisted it and forced him to see a therapist with me. It turned out I was under her scrutiny. Harry was fine. I was the one who needed help she said and sent me a bill for $75.

If I have a backbone, I had better straighten it now. ‘Harry, I’m going to stay in the spare room for the rest of our married life, unless you put your worn underwear in the hamper or you wear it forever. I’m not picking it up ever again.’ Does he hear me? Does he care how he bothers me? I have to cure him or accept him and I am out of acceptance.

Harry and I have a nice, peaceful dinner, one he particularly enjoys, Salisbury steak, smothered in sauteed onions, home fries and stuffed peppers. We have chocolate mousse (that he thinks I made) for dessert. The Colts are playing the Ravens tonight which means I should leave Harry alone. I don’t. Instead, I parade provocatively in front of him during commercials. He tells me to sit down. I don’t. I strip and leave my underwear on the floor and he doesn’t see that either. It is still there when I come down in the morning.

The spare room is comfortable but lonely. If I like it enough, I’ll buy new curtains, bed spread, may even have the wall to wall carpet removed and have hardwood floors installed. At breakfast Harry asks if I had a good night’s sleep. I reply, ‘Go to hell, Harry. You are a foolish pig. Don’t expect me in your bed, ever.What you can expect is a letter from our lawyer. I’m not joking. It is divorce time. Clean up your own breakfast. You can thaw or you can go out for dinner. I’ll be out for the evening.’ As usual, Silent Harry is silent. Where is this new strength I have coming from? I scare myself.

My friend, Gilda, and I take in an idiotic movie with a PG rating that is childishly adult. I’m home, if I can still call it home. Harry’s car is in the driveway. The kitchen is neat, clean. I go up to my new room and there is Harry, lying in the bed I already consider mine. There is no underwear on the floor or on him. And in a flash, none or me either.

And, like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, I expect to live happily ever after.