Clint and I have been together for five years. That might not be long time for some people, but it almost a quarter of my life. At any rate it is long enough for me to plot ten different ways of revenge for Clint “accidentally” shrinking my favorite pieces of clothing. Not only were these pieces my favorite, but they were also pieces that couldn’t just go grab off the shelf at Target. They were usually items that I found on the sale rack in the last size that could possibly fit me. This makes it impossible for Clint to go out and buy me an exact replacement. Now I say he shrank them accidently, because I am sure he did not do the laundry with the intent of starting World War III but since the well being on my clothing is not nearly as important to him as it is to me, he didn’t pay as much attention to the various articles of clothing as was necessary. Had he glanced at each piece as it came out of the washer, he would have seen that is belonged on the rack to air dry. But in his logical mind, it was much easier to just cram everything in the dryer and hope for no ill consequences. Probably nine out of ten times he can get away with it, but it is that one time when he shrinks not just a T-shirt, but one of my prized shirts, that I lose it. I have a feeling that he thinks if this happens enough times, I will not ask him to do my laundry. But unfortunately for him that is not the case. I am very persistent and I view this as opportunity for him to get as much practice as possible so he can prevent other episodes of clothing ruining.
Now I still love Clint even though he murders my favorite clothing items, and lord knows I probably give him some grief as well. One of my favorite pastimes is sending him pictures of baby animals that I remind me of him, or that I want to adopt. I am currently filling his AOL account with pictures of baby sloths. I am trying to show Clinton that they bear some resemblance to him, and for that reason we should adopt one. It would be a great outlet for my mother hen skills. For some reason he is not buying this. Something about the illegal ownership of a wild marsupial. I say it isn’t illegal if they don’t know about it. I think if Clint just turned a blind eye to some of my escapades, my life would be a whole lot easier and his life would be a whole lot more peaceful.
For instance, I see nothing wrong with biking without a helmet. The helmet makes my head hot and itchy and ruins my hair. It is possibly the most unattractive thing I could possibly wear. It makes me look awkward and clumsy. Clint’s argument is that it would protect my brain if I fell off my bike. But I have two counter-arguments to that point. First of all, I am so clumsy that I am just as likely to hit my head when I stand up from bending over underneath something, and I don’t wear a helmet for that. And second of all, a knock on the head could be argued as something that might actually help me. But he refuses to listen to reason and insists on me wearing that flashing beacon of plastic that signifies the opposite of grace and poise.
Clint also does not agree with the way I handle confrontation. I hate being bothered in the morning when I am trying to get ready for work, and chances are I am already running late because I have mysteriously lost a piece of outfit in my black hole (aka my closet). So I am probably frazzled and annoyed because as usual my hair is taking forever to straighten. Clint usually decides to bother me during this time frame and this elicits a very territorial response from me. My solution is to chase him with my hair straightener until he leaves me alone. I feel like if I burn his butt once or twice he will most definitely leave me alone and the order in my universe will be restored. But for some reason, Clint thinks that me chasing him with a very hot hair straightener is an example of boyfriend abuse. I have tried to explain to him countless times that I would not even be chasing him with a very hot object if he had not been attempting to hijack my personal space while I was in the middle of a very strenuous battle with my hair. So in my point of view, he needs to be burnt a time or two to help him remember to keep his hands to himself while I make my morning preparations. This would make me a whole lot calmer in the morning which would benefit our relationship. But I am pretty sure part of the reason he keeps this whole ritual up is that he enjoys seeing my squawking chicken impersonation when I get mad.
I think this is a perfect representation of our love.
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