There are days when patience is stretched to its thinnest thread.
Me: Can you please listen for a moment?
Him: Of course, what is it?
Me: Sometimes, I wish you’d really hear me, not just the parts you catch by chance, but everything I’m trying to say. It happens so often: I’m talking, and before I can even finish, you interrupt.
Him: Wait, I interrupt? I just want to know what you want me to do.
Me: Yes, but when you interrupt like that, it feels as though my words vanish before they even have a chance to be heard. Then you look at me, puzzled, and ask, “What was it you wanted me to do?” as if I never said anything at all.
Him: I … I forgot. I’m sorry.
Uggh!!
Could you please put those gardening clothes in the wash? You’ve worn them for three days,” I ask, trying to sound patient.
He frowns, “No, not three days, only two.”
“And could you top up my phone credit? I’ve shown you how, it’s about to run out.”
He hesitates. “Yes, but what if I do it wrong?”
A sigh escapes me. “You won’t.”
He glances at me, noticing I’ve just settled into the chair. “But you’re just sitting there, doing nothing!”
“After hours of cooking dinner, I’d like a moment,” I reply, my voice weary.
Around and around we go. Requests, reminders, small frustrations, each of us trying to be heard in our daily dance.
. . .
Prelude to my story — Fired and Freed: My Journey as My Own Boss
And a tribute to the most annoying man in the world.
At the height of my teaching career, I was let go, unexpectedly and unceremoniously. What could have felt like a dead end, I chose to see as a door opening to new possibilities: the chance to reinvent myself, to dream bigger.
I decided to start my own business. My own Beauty Training College.
Chris, I want to do this. I want International Accreditation: ITEC (International Therapy Exam Council, London) from London, England, then considered the gold standard in the nineties.
To achieve it, I needed to travel to London to study.
At the time, there were six ITEC colleges in Perth, Western Australia. I asked my husband if we could move to the Eastern states, so I could set up my college where there would be less competition.
My husband is the most steadfast, risk-averse, and kind-hearted person you could ever meet. When I told him my plan, he looked at me in utter disbelief.
“You want me to move and give up my job? What if I can’t find another?”
He had always held a steady government position, providing reliability throughout his career.
We had two sons: one seventeen, the other ten. I was asking a lot, not just for him to let me go to London to study and earn the qualifications needed for my international college, but also to move our lives across the country; for him to hold down the home front, care for the children, after giving up his own job and relocating to Canberra the capital of Australia.
It was an enormous ask.
And yet, with grace, he agreed.
He held the household together remarkably well, despite the inevitable complaints from the boys about his cooking and housekeeping.
But he made every effort: he attended all their sporting events, stood on the sidelines of football and cricket matches, even coached the younger one’s team (though the older made it clear — dad coaching was not cool!).
Meanwhile, I was in London, careful with every penny of the redundancy payout Chris received, staying with my aunt and uncle, who so generously offered me room and board. I worked hard, earned every qualification I could, and achieved the accreditation that would make my dream possible.
One event stands out vividly in my memory. I had just returned from a special effects make-up class, sporting a convincingly gruesome dagger wound to the heart and a slashed wrist, feats of artistry I was rather proud of.
Seized by mischief, I decided to play a trick on my old aunt. The effect was, perhaps, a little too realistic: she nearly fainted on the spot, and my uncle, in a panic, was already on the phone to emergency services.
The ambulance arrived on our doorstep before I could utter “Jack Robinson”!
Even Chris was contacted, and without hesitation, he was prepared to board a plane at a moment’s notice. This wonderfully infuriating individual.
After three months, I returned home, my vision realized, my heart grateful for the sacrifices made, and Chris, ever steady, having held the fort for us all.
. . .
As all things go, you Get What You Give.
Chris secured a significantly more senior position in the government upon relocating to Canberra, one that involved engaging with politicians and diplomats from across the globe.
He moved up the ranks to work with ASIO on counter-terrorism, which would not have been possible in the smaller city in the West. He certainly got his reward, and my eldest son finally met his life partner in Canberra, the younger one meeting his partner on an overseas Contiki to London and bringing her back home to Canberra.
My college flourished for many years. We found good investment properties and other exciting ventures in this City.
All of it, I believe, made possible by the steadfast love and unwavering kindness of one infuriating yet remarkable man.
Embrace the challenges and seize the opportunities that cross your path. Life’s journey is unpredictable, and you may be astonished by where it leads you.
In life we truly reap what we sow.
. . .
Annoyance is an uninvited guest, but not necessarily an unwelcome one.
Each moment of exasperation is an opportunity: to know ourselves more deeply, to connect with others, and to cultivate a sense of humour about the delightful absurdity of being human.
So the next time you find yourself annoyed, pause and consider, perhaps, just perhaps, there is a joy to be discovered in the vexation.
. . .
Thanks for reading dear friends and infuriating partners ღ.
—
This post was previously published on Write A Catalyst.
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Photo credit: Stephanie Roberts
