“Towel!” my husband cries out.
Uh-oh, I must have forgotten to replace the his-and-hers towels I had removed after showering last night. How easily I forget tasks when I put them off for later, especially tasks not normally assigned me, such as this one, which falls on my kasambahay Lani, who happens to be on vacation.
Although willing enough, and promptly able, in fact, to own up to an alarmingly rising incidence of negligence (wouldn’t you rather be negligent than forgetful?), I’m still not spared Vergel’s needling, done with such theatrical flair it’s more funny than irritating—sighing deeply and audibly, as he rolls his eyes and shakes his gray head of long, limp hair.
“You should have noticed that before stepping into the shower,” I retort, managing to throw some of the blame his way. With Vergel, you had better be able to hold some of your ground or he’ll run you over.
Presently, my eldest son Rob announces himself in hopes, I sense, of being able to offer a calming presence: “Mom…” But he could not divert me now from the dramatics of a wife going about her neglected task for her husband with some annoyance.
With exaggerated effort I walk the five steps from my computer to the linen closet, blindly yank out the first towel my hand touches, and stomp another three steps to shove it to the helpless, wet man.
“There, sir!”
“Hey,” he calls back even before I’m out of the bathroom, one wet arm stretched out from behind the shower curtain, shoving back the towel so I can read the dear-departed names embroidered on it, in script: “Titong and Lita.”
Sentimentality
I grab the sacred towel-for-two to save it from desecration and quickly put it back in the closet, feeling consoled in my own sentimentality. I also keep Mom’s favorite white dress in my own clothes closet.
I bring sir another towel. Of course, by now, we are both in stitches.
“Mom,” repeats Rob, my 50-year-old bachelor, a condominium dweller like us on the block, visibly relieved by the laughter ending our little domestic scene, which he should by now expect, having been, with his great timing, not a rare witness to such theater.
“I’m not sure where I read it—National Geographic, maybe. It’s a study on the behavior of older couples revealing that after many years of living together, they get more irritated with each other, not less, as would seem widely presumed.”
His theory: “After all those years of putting up with the spouse’s irritating habits, patience runs out, and something’s bound to give.”
I do know of couples who have solved the issue with separation, but still separation within the domestic confines—separate bathrooms or separate beds or separate bedrooms.
Surely nothing so extreme is called for in our case, although there was a time I would go crackers whenever Vergel, who, in the bathroom, could be the equivalent of a bull in a china shop, left water splotches on the lavatory mirror, despite a towel at hand for the precise tidying purpose. It took years before the simple wisdom dawned on me to do the wiping myself, instead of making an issue of it.
Irritations come precisely from the small stuff that can, as Rob says, erode one’s patience, and at an increasing rate as one ages. And long-time widows themselves say the absence of a spouse doesn’t make them immune. “I find myself becoming more irritable, more prone to temper outbursts,” confesses one.
“It must have to do with age and deteriorating health,” says another widow, who has been dealing with blood pressure and cholesterol issues, and is now also recovering from a gall bladder surgery.
If it’s any consolation, the few of us who have husbands still have at least someone with whom to share the blame. “I’m more irritated, especially now that he’s become hard of hearing,” says a friend. “Ang kulit!” adds another, summarizing the common dilemma. “I have to remind myself to be patient, baka ma-karma ako,” says a third similar case.
Frisky
To be sure, the problem, I myself can safely say, is not one-sided. After three years of writing this weekly column, not to mention all the writing that came before that, I still haven’t figured out what makes my computer go frisky on me—sometimes deleting at will, it seems. It’s in these moments that Vergel becomes useful, moments, too, when he is, justifiably, irritated himself, for he and I know it’s not the computer. Rob happens to be an IT person himself, but my problem is either beneath him or beyond IT.
If I must admit to anything, it’s that I do forget things; the bright side is, I usually leave them at home so nothing is really lost. But Vergel doesn’t find cause to celebrate that happy twist, especially not when he himself has left his own cellphone at home, and we’re both out without one.
Only the other day—for the first time, I must say for due credit—I forgot my wallet. Lani, who finds everything eventually, found it in my drawer, among vouchers, apparently left there after I had paid the salaries. But again the happy ending went un-applauded by Vergel.
Today I got this joke in my cellphone:
“Notice at a church: Please do not leave your husband in our crowded premises. If he gets lost, you may erroneously think your prayers have been answered!”
It was from a friend, who until then didn’t realize I was about the only other person in our circle with a living husband she could pass the joke to and share a laugh with.
Laughter does clear my mind, and lightens life. It also has me musing: Couldn’t these irritations be Providence’s way of easing the pain of losing the dear old goat or, in my case, the sweet old cow, cushioning the blow with great relief in the end, for both?
I wouldn’t put it past the Great Loving One to play such a sweet, nasty trick on us.