Sing Like You Did When You Were A Kid

My wife and I were in the kitchen cooking and washing dishes. She was cooking, I was dishing. Dish washing is my favorite household chore. At my sink, I am good. I am very good. Everything I need is there: my soap, my yellow brush, my drying rack, my self-respect. Because every single time I try to wash a dish, I succeed. You know how fighter pilots can change the course of a battle, even a war, while in a very small workspace, and this makes them popular, good-looking, and revered? It’s like that. Sometimes, Mindy complains: “Where’d my cup go?” “It’s there.” I point to a gleamingly clean cup on the cup shelf. “I was still using it.” “It is there.” Again, I point. “It had coffee in it. I was still drinking it!” “Did you set it down somewhere in this house while I am dishing?” She sighs longer than lung capacity should allow for. She turns back to the cooking, then immediately says, “What the hell…where’s my spatula?” “You set it down.” “For one second! To ask about my cup!” Do not be deceived. This isn’t us fighting. Us fighting doesn’t make a sound. Because it’s me having done something childish like being upset over Mindy’s inability to read my mind, then it’s me pouting in another room, which is the quietest thing you’ve ever not heard. <a href="https://medium.com/wholistique/sing-like-you-did-when-you-were-a-kid-4e175ada992b">Read More</a>