I am at home. It is a Sunday night. I have an 8:30 class the next morning, and it takes me approximately 30 minutes to drive to school. As well, being female, and it being early in the morning, I need a significant amount of time to shower and prepare myself so that I don't arrive at school looking like something dug up from the garburator. This is what I try to do each morning:
It takes me at least 15 minutes to convince myself that my degree is more important than my pillow (and at 6:45 in the morning, the majority of me says it is not), another 20 to shower and 15 more to dry my hair and decide on an outfit, 10 more minutes to put coffee in a travel mug, shove a bagel in my mouth, and pack my clothes for school, and half an hour to drive there, park, and start walking to class.
It is far from a timely process, but it gives me enough time to convince the bags under my eyes to shrink from duffel- to tea-, avoid smelling like I am past my expiry date, and generally feel like a multi-celled organism.
I like my routine. It works for me. I have timed it to the second and I move at the perfect pace. I do not wish to change it in any way.
My boyfriend, however, likes to "help". He "helps" me in various ways: by kicking me in the back of the knee while I'm cooking; by tickling me awake when I am falling asleep at my desk; by insisting that he will, in fact, help me clean later, then apologizing at night when the only object that has seen a discerning finger is the joystick on his PS3 controller. He likes to announce proudly that he is "helping" as he does these things. Most of that is sarcastic. Some of it is not.
He is cute and wonderful and as childish as I am, and I love him for it. His "helpfulness" varies between adolescent teasing and genuine assistance, and I'll admit that sometimes I "help" him too (my personal favourite being poking him in the waist when he is trying to carry a load of laundry to the washing machine). Sometimes, however, his "help" is genuinely meant with the best intentions -- for example, he knows I am sick of cooking so he brings home sushi for us to share -- and my appreciation is equally genuine. He likes to do these things without telling me, because he relishes the surprise (and he knows it makes me smile). This has served him well in the past, but not always -- it has failed him before (for example, making me a smoothie before he goes to work but leaving me all of the dishes); or in a recent case, when he thought I was tired and I could use some extra sleep, and he decided to do something about it.
And then this happened.
His "help", in this regard, is no longer required.
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