To be honest, it’s the same silly fight, more or less, every year. But being predictable isn’t the most ridiculous part of this debate.
“This can’t be all the lights. We’re, like, a foot from the top of the tree!”
“This can be all the lights because it is all the lights.”
“No way. They worked last year.”
“Smaller tree.”
“No way. Same size tree.”
“Are you going to fix the lights?”
“No. There’s no way…”
“Just fix them.”
“Easy for you to say. I always do the lights.”
“So shouldn’t you be better at putting them on right?”
“They are on right, smartass. They just don’t go all the way up.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Fine. I’ll finesse them a bit. But it’s going to drop even more needles if I go around and around taking the slack out of the lights.”
“So move the tree away from the wall.”
“You. It’s too hard to move.”
“Then why would I do it?”
“Because I said so.”
“Please fix the lights.”
“Fine.” Takes ten minutes to rewrap the tree. “Is that good?”
“If by good you mean closer to the top.”
“I do.”
“Then, yes, it’s ‘good.'”
“Don’t finger-quote. Just…fine. You do it.”
“I’m not doing it. You’re the lights person.”
“But why? Why do I do this every year?”
“Because you do it wrong every year then want someone else to fix it. So if you have to fix it yourself, nobody has to listen to you control-freak all over them.”
“I don’t ‘control freak all over…’. Damn it. I want to rewrap this.”
“Go ahead.”
“This is the last time, though.” Fixes lights on tree, which is still against the wall. Lights are perfect, tree is perfect, life is perfect.
“That looks great.”
“It does, doesn’t it. Thank you. Now you sweep up the needles.”
“No way.”
“Why not?”
“Because you made the mess and you have to clean it up.”
As ridiculous and childish as this fight is, I find it more ridiculous and childish that I’m having it with myself. Because my husband won’t get within 50 feet of the tree when I’m stringing the lights.
Mostly because he knows I’ll have this fight with or without him, and he prefers…greatly prefers…that I have it without him.
NaptimeWriting 