If I had a dollar for every time my spouse said "My God! Who cares? What does it matter?" over the last twenty-one years of our marriage, I would be a very wealthy woman.
I am very glad that I don't pull on my own hair when Steve pops off with his standard reply to anything he doesn't understand, doesn't like, doesn't want to do. Otherwise I'd be bald.
Rich doesn't help bald.
The sad thing is that he cares about stopping on the freeway for a total stranger driving thirty miles per hour to merge on from an on ramp. He cares about his truck getting door dings so he parks on the opposite side of a parking lot from the front door of whatever store or restaurant we are going to.
Even though he has personally dented, crushed, sideswiped, smashed or otherwise marred his truck a dozen times already.
He cares about letting a person with two full shopping carts step ahead of him when I send him to the store to grab a single ingredient I just ran out of while in the middle of making dinner.
He cares about the possibility that one of our neighbors might be napping in the middle of the day when I've asked him for the hundredth time if he is going to mow the eight inches of grass in our yard or should I hire someone to do it.
It hurts my feelings that he doesn't seem to want to consider whether or not I care, or want to do things that would be pleasing to me.
Earlier this year, while buying plants for our expansive back deck's flower boxes and hanging baskets, I also purchased several sugarsnap pea plants. I did so because I know Steve loves them and I thought he'd enjoy having several batches of fresh pea pods to take in his lunch each week. I mentioned that to him while trying to explain that many married couples do things like that because they love their spouse and enjoy pleasing them.
To which he replied, "Well that's stupid! I can buy my own peas when I want."
Steve also insists that he is empathetic. That when people state that Aspergians don't seem to feel empathy, they are dead wrong. He always cries about sad stories and movies. He feels empathy when dogs are sad or locked up.
But when he forgets to tell me that he's going to be four hours late coming home on a particular day, refuses to turn on his phone to receive calls or texts and we sit waiting to have dinner until he gets home, he says that I am just too controlling.
"What about common courtesy?" I ask.
"You aren't my mother!" snorteth He.
Boy oh boy, Sweetie, don't I know it! You are always polite and courteous to your mom. Just not to me or our kids.
Oh, by the way, we care and it matters to us. I sure hope you read this today. Perhaps by the time you get home I can find something to laugh about.
And thank you for putting up the ceiling fan for me that I bought last year. It made the room much more bearable yesterday.