You know the scene in someone else’s life where the wronged lover goes home and pitches the bastard’s belongings out a second floor window into a heap on the driveway? Ties, underwear, pants, shirts, suit jackets, lycra cycling shorts, x-country skis, an exploded can of shaving cream with blobs scattered like snowball chances in hell, smashed bottles of cologne, a toothbrush and his fluoride-free toothpaste – also exploded – his prize collection of The Clash, Sex Pistols and Green Day vinyl thrown like Frisbees into the neighbours yards and the album covers doused with his $50 bottle of extra virgin olive oil and organic, free range honey?
Well, a month after Randy moved in with Moira, he went through the paper recycle bin. and picked out stuff that shouldn’t have been there, piled it neatly at the garage door and left her a note.
Thought you’d like to see how far I’ve progressed since we met. The pizza box and some tissues were in with the paper recycling and I’m pretty sure they should go in the green bin. Love you.
His superior sorting skills and attention to detail humiliated her and then she felt further humiliation at her inability to accept this household chore role reversal. Why shouldn’t he be the sorter? When did sorting the paper recycling become a gender assigned role? Wasn’t it a good thing that he wasn’t bound by his position as a non-sorter? Shouldn’t she be happy that her mate had a fluid approach to gender roles?
She felt stupid for her humiliation so she thanked him. Told him what a super job he’d done and vowed she’d curb her natural carping inclinations. And then she felt like a failed ecofeminist for beating herself up.