What Have I Done for Me Lately?

Well, it’s been a while since I last wrote. Here’s why: I do whatever the fuck I want, when I want, with only one person to answer to: me, myself, and my husband (okay, two people, but he is super easy to answer to and to be honest, rarely asks me anything).

I actually offer significantly more answers than his queries require. Despite that fact, if marriages were washing machines, ours is well-balanced. Except occasionally when the heavier towels bunch up on one side of the drum, and I need to reach in and smooth them all out again (pipe down). He doesn’t even have to say anything. He just wanders away, like a silent “off-balance” light blinking silently on a control panel that someone eventually notices.

Speaking of drums: One thing I did for myself lately is buy a new old-school washer. What I mean by that is, I got rid of the 12-year-old front loader and went back to basics: a top-load Maytag with the agitator in the middle, knobs that turn and make noise, and a metal lid for slamming down when you need to, but doesn’t break anything.

My point is this: no more smelly washer with a gross well of water and a mold-infested rubber gasket-thing you have to be careful not to scrape with the whites on their way out, no more plastic window on the door, and no delicate “twink” sound when you close it. No more twisted clothes that require two hands to sort out while crap drops onto the floor on its way to the dryer.

When our front-loader bit the dust, I went to Lowe’s to look around. But I knew what I was going to do.

At the store, a salesman and I had this brief exchange when I told him I had decided on the Maytag, all-metal, no “soft-close” fancy glass top. No “removable agitator.” (Agitators have been replaced by little stumps called “impellers” that create water “currents” to make people think they’ve got the best of both worlds: lots of space and a big open drum without the smell of a front loader. But I did my research. They don’t work. Reviews say they don’t get the clothes clean. I also did 40 years of washing with an agitator. They do work. I’m pro-agitation.

“What about the dryer?” the blue-vested man asked.

“I’m not replacing the dryer.”

“But is it a front loader also?”

“Yes.”

“But then you’ll have a front-load dryer and a top-load washer.”

“I don’t care.”

Two days later, my country-bumpkin Maytag, on sale for $550, was sitting next to its fancy cousin from the city in my laundry lab.

Other things I’ve done for myself since all the chicks have flown the nesticular region, earned their degrees, and set up their own abodes: kept my own schedule.

A few days ago, I walked away from my desk in my home office for a 4:30 appointment on the couch with a glass of red wine, leftover tacos from last night’s dinner at the local cantina, and a new episode of Ladies of London. But that’s not the best part: As I was prepping for my meeting (donning my slippers, pouring the wine, etc.) I was invited to accompany my husband on an errand, and I said, “No.” Actually, I said, “I’ll pass,” but the important part is I didn’t say “yes,” when what I meant was, “I totally do not want to do that.”

Saying “yes” when I mean “no” has been my M.O. for the better part of 59 years. But now I have the power, the right, and the will to serve myself first; kids came first for many years, and happily so. That was then. This is now. And now, I (and my husband) have the freedom to choose. He chooses his hobbies on rainy Saturday afternoons; I choose mine. Sometimes those overlap. I can’t talk about that here.

Ours is a true partnership. In other words, I’m not his mommy, he’s not my boss, and we both like it that way. I don’t do his laundry (he prefers doing his own because he has a system that works for him, which begins and ends on the same calendar day, from dirty pile to clean, folded, and put away. If I complete mine in the same week, I’m pumped.)

I do 95% of the cooking because I like to cook. But if I work late, we get takeout, or he makes himself something. If he works late, I don’t wait for him because I like to eat early. He can eat alone. He’s a big boy. No grudges, no irritation. Overall, we prefer the adult-to-adult vibe. Neither of us “put our foot down” because neither of us likes how it makes the other person feel: parented. And if we forget, we gently remind each other, “Darling, you’re not my fucking parent.” Just kidding. We ignore it, just like our teenagers did to us.