I'm sure there is some genetic, scientific, neurological reason for this. Maybe I'm pigeon-toed or have poor spacial awareness or it has something to do with my eye sight perception or my posture and stance. Maybe the left side of my body is 1/4 an inch shorter than the right. But whatever it is, I have functioned in the world without discovering the ultimate source and without any major catastrophes, as of yet. (*Knock on wood*). Mostly, it just makes me feel mortifyingly embarrassed and nervous around nice things and frustrated (when it happens yet again or I ruin a blouse or have to fess up to another person that I've damaged something that belongs to them).
I told Mr. U about all of this. "If we continue dating," I explained, "at some point or another, you will without a doubt have something spilled on one of your shirts. Permanently. And I will feel bad." His only response, without flinching or batting an eye, was this: "I look forward to it."
That simple phrase: "I look forward to it," in reference to one of my most secret flaws (I try to hide this lack of grace at all costs around most people) was one of the many things Mr. U said and did in the beginning that made me think he just might be for real and we might just really work out.
But despite his being forewarned of my defect in this area and his promise to be patient, I still wasn't quite ready to let him see this unfortunate side of myself. So I would attempt, as you will see, to conceal it. For the most part, however, I hadn't had to hide anything as my accident-prone ailings had not surfaced during our time together...Until...this morning. When all hell --broke loose.
First, I knocked down the shower basket (whatever you call that thing that holds all your soaps and shampoos that sticks against the wall with whatever you call those suction pucker things). "Sorry," I said. "It's okay." He said. (I knew this one was okay). (And I had to admit this one, because he was on deck for the bathroom next.) As he hung the device back in its proper place along the tiles, I went to turn the dimmer switch up to provide more light. And then the knob fell off. "Sorrrrryyyyy!" I said "No problem," he said. (He saw this one happen, as he was standing right next to me). And then...
While Mr. U was in the shower, I started to get dressed. And the T-Tornado just kept rolling through...
I spilled a glass of water. All over the bed-side dresser. And down into and on top of all the contents in the open dresser drawer. Major, major - fail. I went into the kitchen and got as many paper towels as I could and came back to sop up the damage. Of course, I couldn't hide this one either. So when Mr. U came out of the shower, I just looked at him with an expression that a puppy might use when it knows its peed inside the house and been bad. "Sorrrrreeeeeeeey," I said. "What now?" he looked at me incredulously. "I spilled some water," I explained, my eyes avoiding contact with his. He walked over to assess the damage. And then I watched him pull out his WALLET and one by one pull ones and fives and tens and twenty and then fifty dollar bills out of his wallet and lay them out individually on top of paper towels on the bed to dry. And then shake out his nice, leather wallet completely soaked. "Sorry." I said again. "I'm so sorry." "It's okay, it's okay," he assured me. Though I couldn't help but wonder if he was actually starting to get annoyed or not. Maybe he felt like he was starting to deal with a small child here with sticky hands and a penchant for running them along the walls leaving fingerprints behind.
And then the unthinkable happened. I went to pick up my duffel bag from the floor to finish packing my things, when I realized, IN HORROR, that a bottle of blue liquid medicine had SPILLED on his perfect Persian rug. HOLY. MOTHER. OF. GOD. (Sorry for those who don't like the Lord's name taken in vain but still...it must be said, even again...) HOLY. MOTHER. OF. GOD!!!!!!!!!!!
This I was not admitting to. I could not. I would not. Panic set in. And then resolve. Resolve to clean up this mother effin mess before he saw it. What to do? How to get him out of this room? !!!!!!!!!!!!!
Lovely man that he is, he will always makes me coffee. And/or breakfast. If I ask. Which I did. After I heard him puttering around the kitchen, safely down the hall and out of sight, I rushed into the bathroom. Soaked a wash cloth in water and set to work in the corner of the bedroom scrubbing and rubbing the rug with abandon. And as if finding Mr. U wasn't enough luck for one person to deserve in a single calendar year, the blue came out. Mostly anyways. But it came out. Enough that he probably wouldn't notice. For awhile. And in the mean time I could try to get at it, with more powerful cleaning substances, at a later date and time. I hoped.
Mr. U, totally unaware of my faux pas and swift remedy, brought me my treats and then we both finished getting ready for work. Then we put on our coats and hats and stepped outside into the Dupont morning. I couldn't get out of that blue-stained rug room fast enough! And then oh how beautiful it was this morning. To be outside and freed from my failings. Blue skied and crisply cold, not bone-chilling cold as it has been. We strolled to work together taking in all of downtown waking up to start the day. And a Fri - day, no less. Everyone and everything seemed to cheerfully be anticipating the weekend. Every car, every pedestrian, ever bar front. All was right and clean and fresh in my world again.
We arrived at my office first. "Have a great day," he chirped at me and leaned over to kiss me. I gave him a big hug and squeezed him. "Ooooooh, thank you for being so good to me," I praised him. "You deserve it," he said back. And then...as I pulled away from him...I saw it. Oh. No. Just - NO. There it was. A lipstick stain. A giant lipstick stain. On his expensive, starched, dress shirt. FML. Just Fuck. My. Life.
A vision of our future lives flashed before my eyes. Living in a shitty house with shitty furnishings. Our friends come over for a dinner party and I've just spilled red wine on the beige couch. "This is why we can't have nice things," he turns and explains to them. "This is why we can't have nice things." Ugh.
I didn't have the heart to tell him. Maybe he'd discover it. Maybe he wouldn't. Probably he would. But I couldn't tell him just then - As he looked back at me with his own puppy dog eyes that seemed to say he'd known he'd been good and deserved a treat (and not another disappointment). And he looked at me the way he often does - like maybe somewhere in his head he's thinking he's the lucky one. But he would be wrong. I am the lucky one. It's me.
I don't need lots of nice things. I only need one nice thing - and that - is him.