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I don't see myself as someone who is resistant to change. In fact, I pride myself on trying new things. I like to think that I am a role model in this regard for my kids. I firmly believed this about myself - until last week - when I learned just how much of an automaton I have become.
Of course it's all my husbands fault. He decided to play a simple practical joke on the family by switching around the utensils in the silverware drawer. He put the forks where the spoons used to be, the knives in place of the forks, and so on. You'd think the man would have better things to do with his time. Dare I suggest something from the "daddy do" list I have taped prominently to the fridge?
No, the man I love chose to turn my world upside down - instead of installing a dimmer switch. What does that say about our relationship?
When I first reached into the silverware drawer (for what my subconscious believed to be a spoon), I ended up stabbing myself in the face with a fork. It hurt. It hurt even more to realize that I was incapable of adapting to this one tiny household "change." I was disoriented. I was aslo peeved.
If I was trying to tenderize a steak it would be ok, but as the French like to say, "Mon visage n'est pas un bifteck". Ah, the French...also slow to adapt to, and accept, the new world order (but still on top when it comes to food.)
You have no idea how much this small change, this microscopic alteration of my universe, FREAKED me out. I suppose I really am what they call a Creature of Habit. This saddens me because I always thought I was such a wild woman. If you think I'm exaggerating, you try the "silverware" experiment. (I promise the facial wounds will eventually heal.)
My kids were equally stymied by the silverware shuffle. Despite their youth, they were like "Whoa, this is weird, like we totally can't handle this." (Or something "like" that.) This made me feel much better. At least I knew I wasn't freaked out just because I'm old and set in my ways.
So what does it mean for the future of my family if we can't handle a minor habitat change? Dare I say extinction? If Jane Goodall was sitting on a stool in my kitchen, what would she be scribbling in her judgmental little notebook? That the subjects are experiencing debilitating confusion? Are incapable of overcoming muscle memory? That primates could, and would, do better?
This is heavy stuff. If my family's unique gene pool is to survive, we clearly need to get more comfortable with change. So in this case, though I don't like to admit it, Dad may not actually be a sadist, and is doing us a favor. And I thought he was just trying to drive us nuts!
Dad (hereafter known as "Dr. Evil") is having a lot of fun experimenting on us. As soon as one of us returns the silverware to its rightful place, he sneaks into the kitchen and switches it back. We are the hapless mice in his private behavioral science lab. He's a complete psycho. All I can say is I'd better not get a treadmill for my birthday.
I have to give my husband credit for creativity though. He's both saving the family and "keeping the relationship fresh" as recommended by Cosmo. I'm told that it's the little things husbands do, that show how much they love their wives. Like keeping us off the endangered species list.
So I'm off to re-arrange the stuff in his tool room. And install a webcam so I can watch my darling squirm when he reaches for a hammer and comes up with pliers instead.
What can I say? The love runs deep.
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