My husband becomes a devil this time of year. His eyes glint with mischief and he can barely contain a smirk as he struts around our apartment. It’s like he drags his feet on purpose, just because he can. It doesn’t hurt him, yet for us girls it’s torture. It’s almost as if he enjoys inflicting this pain on the women in his life. I’m talking about static electricity. My KISA doesn’t need to build up a charge before zapping us. It just happens. He will sit on the couch and distractedly pet the cat. Pat. Snap. I watch as she flinches before contact every single time. Pat. Snap. Pat. Snap. Her ears flatten or a second and I can hear the electric crackle from across the room. It doesn’t hurt her much but it makes me shudder. When it comes time for me to make contact with KISA I practically slug him across the face to defuse the shock. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t work. I get jolted anyway. I’m sure the neighbor can hear me scream…ten houses away. And. He. Laughs. How cruel is that? We are not a violent household, but it sure sounds like it in the winter. I let out yelps of pain so loud I’m just waiting for the day someone calls the cops on us. It’s so bad that I want to ban certain articles of clothing that snap and crackle when removed. I had a sweater that puts on a spectacular light show when taken off in the dark. I gave it Goodwill. Touching metal anything is torture. Getting in and out of my car is hell. File cabinets. Light switches. Door knobs. Desk drawers. Doing laundry – having to peel the nightgown from running pants. I have to resist the urge to OD on dryer sheets.
All this electricity has got me thinking about the things we collect. A trait developed and adopted…sort of like a stray sock stuck to a towel fresh from the dryer. What is inherently me and what have I picked up from time served in a relationship? Something I’ve been thinking about. More on that later…
~*LunaSea*~ 