Because I really want a glass of Vermouth. Or, maybe it is, because I've discovered some truth: I am a blame sponge.
If there is any consternation, flapdoodle or anger within my range of perception (unless it's in my office, and I have my guard up), I think it is my DUTY, my OBLIGATION to make everybody happy. And heaven help my darling, relatively non-neurotic husband if I perceive that HE is contributing to the flapdoodle. Others, I try to cheer up, placate, and be kind to. But my husband? No, him I get cranky, cross, accusatory and sappily disappointed with.
Not fair to him, and a big pain to me.
I know where I learned all of that. The curse of the only child.... of cocktail swilling parents at mid century. It may have looked all wonderful. Hepburn andTracy et al... When it was really Crawford, wire hangers and the Straight-jacket crew.
I'm sad for the child who believed it was her job.
Maybe I'll knit. Or crochet. I bought a book of gazillions of Afghan crochet square patterns this afternoon. Must do a bit of pre-workweek work first... and then. R&R for a Sunday night.
1 comment:
The curse of the only child indeed. And being an only child married to another only child is that much more difficult. We can't have a decent fight because we're both sopping up the blame.
Oy.
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