It Bothers Me When People Don’t Know Me

A photo of a cup of coffee.

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Sometimes it bothers me when people I love and care about don’t remember little things about me.  It’s not significant.  It’s a minor thing.

There are a few things in this world – mostly food – that I simply do not care for, and I have gone above and beyond to make known all the little things I do not like.  I know what you’re thinking.  Suck it up, and remove the offensive things from your line of sight, don’t eat them and move on.  And I agree wholeheartedly with you.  Really, I do.  And I absolutely CAN remove said offensive things, no problem.

But sometimes… it just bothers me.

Whenever I visit my parents, they are constantly asking several times if I would like coffee.  I don’t drink coffee.  I never have and probably never will.  Who’s to say what will happen ten years down the road when I am a coffee junkie looking for my next fix so badly that I steal an IV to pump it through my veins.  But right now, I don’t like coffee.  My parents know that.  They have always known that.  And yet, they still continue to ask.  I wonder if it’s just a means to being polite, or if they just can’t remember that even though I live below the Mason Dixon I still don’t drink coffee.

Mister sometimes forgets little things about me, too.  And that’s normally fine.  I can make a joke by introducing myself to him as if we’ve never met and move on.  But there are times when it’s just too much to let go.  And it’s this tiny, little, insignificant thing.  And yet it still bothers me. 

I don’t blame Mister for not remembering.  We’ve only been married for 6 months, together again for good for 20 months, and he’s is just now, over the past year, learning about all of my little quirks.  For my  parents?  There is no excuse.  They have known me for all of my 28 years and so far nothing has changed.

Often, it feels like people don’t want to take the time to remember all the little things.  But then again, there are A LOT of little things.  I mean, a CRAP-TON of little things.  It hurts my feelings sometimes when people forget. 

But it’s not important.  I can suck it up and move passed it.  But sometimes… it just bothers me.


Thoughts of the Contemplative Variety

I’ve been in a funny mood lately.  I’ve been doing a lot of rearranging of furniture.  TG calls it nesting.  I don’t know.  Maybe it’s nesting.  But I’m suddenly very bothered by it.

Typically, I rearrange furniture when I’m cleaning.  This happens for two reasons: first because I know everything under everything is getting cleaned 100% for sure, and second because things look nice and different when you rearrange stuff.  This is not the part I’m bothered by.

I feel like I’m living like a college student with my Target furniture and constant clutter.  And I’m working on both of those things.  I visit other people’s homes and watch in awe as they live their very adult, grown up lives, and I wonder what I’m doing with my own.  And at this very moment, all that starts at home.

Maybe cleaning the house will clear my head.

Mister and I have been idly trying for over a year to conceive.  It’s been a fun but difficult process.  I have a few health hurdles to overcome, and I can only hope that I am well on my way to getting to where I need to be.  But Mister and I have started talking about it again, but this time in a very serious way.  As in, I’m getting my health insurance card and calling a doctor to see what else we need to be doing in order to move this process along.  I want to have a child more than anything.  But I feel that can’t happen, or we can’t exist if our home is not clean, and we are not adults.  Fully matured, grown up adults.

And that?  That right there?  That begins at home.

So while Mister is working, I shall be cleaning, and making a dent in our home in hopes that it will sufficiently satisfy my current need for a life with far less clutter.