My husband, Jeremy, does this thing with envelopes. He always asks if we have any, even though I've shown him where they are a hundred times. They're on the shelf with the other stationery items, near the pens, just above the photographs of our children that we have duplicates of but still can't throw out and menus that we also haven't thrown out. They've been kept there for decades, in skinny ledges that resemble mail slots. A complete stranger to our home, casting around the room, would immediately detect that this was the ideal envelope-holding situation. Doesn't matter. Every time my spouse needs to mail something, he says, "Do we have any envelopes?"
On the surface, it seems such an innocent question, and the answer so easy: "Yes, sweetheart. They're on the shelf, near the pens." But it makes me want to put stones in my pocket and walk into the ocean. Or even better, take them out and throw them at him.
Everything about his inquiry enrages and depresses me. Why can't he learn where they are? Why is his attention so much more precious than mine that I have to answer this every time? His whole passive-aggressive approach, "Do we have any envelopes?" is even more infuriating. He's not asking, "Could you get me an envelope?" That would mean facing up to the fact that he has never bothered to learn a basic housekeeping fact. That would mean acknowledging that he is treating his spouse like his personal assistant. That would mean clearly spelling out that what he really wants is for me to get him an envelope.
"Do we have any envelopes?" is what my spouse says. What I hear is "Whatever I'm doing right now is vital, even if it's just random postage tasks. You, on the other hand, can't possibly be doing anything worthwhile. Bringing me the office supplies that are in the shelves behind me if I would just turn around and look is the kind of trivial scut work right in line with your abilities."
How did this happen?
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