this guy, post script + some other random stuff

I totally forgot to mention one of the best things Ron has been doing for me...making my bed.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but I can count on one hand the number of times I've not made my bed in the last fifty or so years.  I cannot fathom getting into an unmade bed.  It's like fingernails on a chalkboard.  Gives me the willies.

Every morning my bed looks like a major military campaign has been waged during the nighttime hours.  Covers strewn about, pillows tossed hither and yon.  Remote controls either on the floor or MIA under the bed.  By the time I've done my morning toilette, Ron has righted the ship and made it PT certified.  And he does it several times each day.

If I could figure out how to clone his skills set, we'd be sittin' pretty somewhere warm with fruity cocktails.  Ok, Ron's would be Scotch, but you get the picture.

Speaking of getting the picture...

When Ron and I were in the "honeymoon" phase of this caregiving role reversal subplot in our marriage, one thing became very clear to me.  I have a very weird brain.  This is not a huge revelation to anyone who knows me, but seeing this particular situation play out made me face the grim reality of being a weird brainer.

It started out innocently enough.  I was getting dressed, with Ron's assistance, and I was trying to decide which top to put on.  Here's the gist of the conversation...words in () are my thoughts...

Me: Can you bring me my purple Estes Park t-shirt (oh, wait, that's a little too tight). No, wait.   (Which one will be most comfortable?).  Bring me the gray one.

Ron: this one?

Me: no, the one that's kind of a turtleneck, but not really.

Silence.

Ron: is this it?

Me: no.  Wait.  (That other one isn't warm enough.) Just bring me my Kanakuk sweatshirt.

If I was playing this little scenario by myself, it would have been resolved in, say, ten seconds.  But bringing in Ron (or anyone, for that matter) took a good three minutes!  And not a small amount of exasperation.

In a slightly raised voice, as he looked at me with a "you have GOT to be kidding me" stare, I said, "Now you have an idea what goes on in my brain every single minute of every single day."

He quietly handed me my sweatshirt, still looking into my eyes.  I stared back.

Was that pity I saw?

Or fear?