My relationship with my partner is brilliant. Truly. It’s the best relationship I’ve ever had. When we are together, I feel relaxed, secure and loved. He is honestly perfect. I have no complaints.
“But he must annoy you sometimes, right?” my friend asks me, and I shake my head.
“Not really,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. “Never? He doesn’t do anything that makes you grit your teeth? Seriously?”
I frown. Okay, so the shoe thing does irritate me a little. My partner insists that I take my shoes off whenever I walk inside the house, which does seem slightly ridiculous. We don’t eat off the floor, so why does it matter if some particles from my soles are transferred onto it?
My partner also objects to me lying – or even sitting – on the bed in any “outside clothes”, which is equally absurd and unreasonable. This isn’t the 1950s, and I don’t change into a housedress the moment I cross the threshold of my home. Other than my pyjamas, all my clothes are, by definition, “outside clothes”.
I love my partner’s voice, and I could listen to him all day, but not when I’m trying to listen to someone else.
KERRI SACKVILLE
Also, I don’t mean to nitpick, but my partner doesn’t like using toll roads, which makes our trips unnecessarily long. And he often kibbitzes when I’m on the phone, which annoys and distracts me no end. I mean, I love my partner’s voice, and I could listen to him all day, but not when I’m trying to listen to someone else.
Having said that, we really do have an ideal relationship, and I am pretty sure there is nothing about me that my partner would wish to change.
“Oh no, there definitely is!” he says cheerily, when I tell him what I’m writing. “Would you like an example?”
“No, thank you,” I say, but I can see the cogs of his brain already turning.
“For one thing, there’s your famine-style hoarding of foodstuffs,” he says. “You must have 20 or 30 cans of tuna in your pantry!” Ah yes, I recall he does prefer a sparser pantry. Still, I’m not changing my shopping habits now. How lucky we are that this is our only issue.
“And it drives me mad the way you squeeze toothpaste from the middle of the tube and leave the cap off,” he adds. “Why can’t you just squeeze from the bottom?”
He has mentioned this once or twice, and I’ve made a desultory effort to change, but it doesn’t stick. “Those are good examples, thanks,” I say.
“There are more,” he says, disconcertingly enthused. “What about the way you eat salad with your fingers? That’s animal behaviour.”
I stare at him. What’s wrong with eating salad with my fingers?
“And the way you dance in public,” he continues. He is really warming up to the topic. “I love your dancing, but perhaps not in the supermarket?”
“Wow,” I say. I’m not quashing my exuberance for anyone.
“And the way you leave the fridge door open when you’re deciding what to eat.”
“Really?” I ask incredulously. “Who cares about the fridge?”
“That’s another one,” he shouts gleefully. “The way you say ‘really’ in an incredulous tone after everything I say.”
“Really?” I start to ask, but bite it back.
“And you wear your outside clothes in bed. It makes me crazy.”
“There’s no such thing as outside clothes,” I tell him.
My partner laughs and kisses the top of my head. “Other than all that,” he says, with unnecessary emphasis on the all, “you are absolutely perfect.”
I look down at myself. I am still wearing my pyjamas (aka my “inside clothes”) and there is a stain on the top. My hair is matted and slightly greasy. My stomach – one that birthed three children and is expanding again with menopause – is hanging over my pants. I have a fungal nail infection in my big toe. There are dark circles under my eyes.
I look far from perfect. And he doesn’t care about any of that. I’m a lucky woman. After all, human beings are exasperating. We all have quirks and habits and neuroses and preferences that make us intolerable to all but a tiny group of people. The older I get, the more miraculous I find it that any two individuals can put up with each other for years on end, let alone still wholeheartedly enjoy each other’s company.
If we can find a friend or partner or companion who will accept us in all of our glorious imperfection, then we are indeed incredibly blessed. “You’re perfect too,” I say, taking off my glasses and tossing them onto the table.
“Oh my god!” my partner says. “The way you treat your glasses drives me mad. Can you not lay them down carefully so that you don’t scratch them?”
I smile at him. Without my glasses, he looks all fuzzy around the edges. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll try harder.” I won’t try harder. I will continue to be flawed. Happily, it won’t even matter.
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Kerri Sackville is an author, columnist and mother of three. Her new book is The Secret Life of You: How a bit of alone time can change your life, relationships and maybe the world.Connect via X or Facebook.
