Love, not laundry, makes marriage work
/The Boston Herald
June 27, 2004
Beverly Beckham
``You're not doing the job you did when I first married you,'' my husband chides, turning to me with a grin and dangling from his hand a thick tangle of unmatched socks, which he has pulled out of his drawer. They are different textures, different patterns and different lengths. But they are all black. Why are all of his socks black?
On the floor, next to him, in a laundry basket, under a stack of towels, are his golf shirts, five of them, not ironed. Around him, there is more disarray.
I am sitting on the bed reading Newsweek. I am reading about Spider-Man and how he is the sensitive new hero, struggling to do right and to please everyone, but guilty and torn because, as Ricky Nelson used to sing, ``You can't please everyone, so you got to please yourself.''
``Ricky Nelson's been dead for a long time,'' I say to myself, but out loud.
``About as long as it's been since you matched my socks,'' my husband replies.
He laughs and I laugh, too, because he's right. It has been years since I matched and folded and patted and fluffed. It's been decades.
I used to do these things. I was a master at them. I matched. I ironed. I mended, even. I repaired hems and replaced buttons. And I used to, when my husband went away, even when he took his golf clubs (``Just in case,'' he would say), fold his shirts and pin notes to them, small pieces of paper that said things like ``I miss you SO much!'' and ``Hurry home!'' Plus I hid pictures of me in the pockets ``So you don't forget what I look like.'' And pictures of us together. And pictures of the kids when they came along.
Now I read a magazine and laugh as he holds up a pair of new socks he found in a different drawer, which he must have bought last time he went somewhere sockless. ``The only socks I have that match are the ones with gold toe tags still on them,'' he tells me. ``That's the only way they stay in pairs around here.''
The funny thing is he doesn't care about his socks. And neither do I. Socks, we both know, are just socks.
But they used to be more. Lined up neatly in a drawer, they were proof that I loved him. Or so I thought.
I folded your socks today. I bought you a shirt. I cooked your dinner. See how much I love you. See how I'm always thinking of you.
My husband's mother used to iron his socks. She ironed everything - underwear, sheets, even dish towels. See how great her love was?
So when did laundry become just laundry, folding and fluffing not an act of love but an endless chore? Is the dilemma of Peter Parker, also known as Spider-Man, shared by all of us? Can you do only so much for others before you lose yourself?
Newsweek calls Peter Parker ``a conflicted hero.'' He has superpowers, but he has ordinary needs. He has obligations but he has choices, too.
And his ambivalence is his charm.
My mother stuffed ironing into a pillowcase. Nothing ambivalent about this. Out of sight, out of mind. She never confused laundry and love.
I read Newsweek while my husband packs. Peter Parker wants to do what's right. But he doesn't want to be doing right all the time. Sometimes he wants just to be.
But it's impossible just to be when you feel responsible for everyone.
Which is why my husband is in charge of his socks and his golf shirts and the things he'll need when he gets to the place where he can just be. (Note: This is any golf course.)
And why I am not in charge of socks anymore. Or of pressed shirts. Or of anything in his suitcase.
Now I'm letting go of the should-haves - should have ironed, should have done the laundry, should have done so many things - that are not about love at all.