Commentary by Danielle Wilson

I’m annoyed, but maybe you can have a good laugh. My husband Doo came down earlier than usual this morning, turned on all the lights and sat at the kitchen counter to go through bills. He even tried talking to me. What’s going on? Doesn’t he understand I have a routine, a ritual? A 45 minute plan that includes 90 percent darkness and 100 percent silence? That to have the day thrust upon me at 6:30 a.m. when I haven’t even had coffee is grounds for stink eye and possibly a full-on conniption?

Clearly he does not. When I asked him to return the room to peaceful blackness he said, “Are you kidding me?” and then proceeded to tear open an envelope. In a huff, I packed up and left. At least I could reach my quiet classroom with a few minutes to spare before being bombarded by hundreds of teenagers and oddly, a toilet bowl cleaner. [Is someone sending me a message? “Swim with the turds, Wilson!”]

Last night, we had a similar “incident.” I’d already turned back into a pumpkin and was literally trying to sleep (eyes closed, blanket tucked) but Doo was in the midst of a fashion show. [Yes, a fashion show. He wanted to parade his new clothes for my approval.] His stuff was strewn all over the room, including the bed, and he kept walking in and out of the bathroom. “How do these jeans look?” “Does this shirt wash me out?” I admit to enjoying his production, but seriously, I just wanted to sleep.

I expressed my fatigue and begged him to call it quits, but I came off sounding naggy, even to myself. Bottom line, my husband’s a classic extravert, and wants noise and light and stimulus at every hour, while I require the opposite. And there’s nothing I can do except vent to you about our marital trials, however banal.

So here we are, back to my annoyance over my beautifully-crafted morning and evening routines being fire-bombed by a handsome bald-guy in a new sweater-vest. It’s okay. Go ahead and chuckle.

Peace out.