JANUARY 22, 2023 – In June my wife and I will celebrate our 40th anniversary. I’ve learned many important lessons over the course of this partnership. One is to put your dishes in the dishwasher. Second is to put them in the dishwasher right away. Another lesson is, if you arrive at the cabin and there’s any sign that mice have been running about, do NOT go for walk after unloading the car. In fact, listen very attentively to any mention of mice, however speculative. (Beth is the only person I know who would cheer Tom in old Tom and Jerry cartoons.) Oh, and another critical lesson: when you’re told we need to leave the house for something at “9:00,” it doesn’t mean 9:01. It. Means. 9:00 (according to iPhone time; not stove-clock time)—a simple rule if you choose to observe it.
Last Thursday my wife vacated snow- and ice-bound Minnesota for two-weeks with friends in sunny San Diego. On Day One she sent me photos of a pacific Pacific Ocean as it gently washed the sands of an endless beach warmed by the bright sun in a cloudless sky. The images confirmed that after a narrow escape from the Land of 10,000 Frozen, Snow-covered Lakes, she’d arrived in the Promise Land, where immediately upon entry she’d been granted asylum.
Meanwhile, when a friend called me and asked how I was doing on my own, I said, “While the cat’s away, the mice will play.” This drew a laugh. The friend is well acquainted with Beth’s strong reaction to a mouse in the house. Beyond the perfect phrase for the perfect set-up, however, I had nothing to report. No pot parties, no crazy loud rock music, no late departure for an appointment, no deviations from my staid, predictable routines when the cat’s on hand.
In fact, on the fourth day of life alone in our house, I’ve strictly observed house rules—proof that I train well. If ever there were a time when I could let down my hair . . . except, my hair these days is pretty short . . . if ever there were a time when I could experience the thrill of leaving late for an appointment, wearing shoes inside, leaving dirty dishes in the sink or dumping my hat, gloves and jacket on the floor of the entryway by the back door, all while my Moby Grape album from 1968 is playing up a storm over the sound system, now would be that time. But no, so well trained am I that none of those departures from house rules holds any attraction or promise of adventure.
Query where I’d be without 40 years of training in orderliness and punctuality. Note the word “training.” The full compendium of house rules was not absorbed instantaneously or intuitively. It took years of infractions coupled with gentle reminders, often frustrated reprimands to achieve compliance, but as a result, I can honestly say I’m a better man for it. Moreover, I’ve even become a stickler about . . . well . . . sticking to house rules.
I’d readily acknowledge, however, that I haven’t reached perfection, but such is the paradoxical nature of perfection. If I’ve learned anything over the past four decades, it’s that unlike sunny San Diego, perfection is a goal, not a destination.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
