Warning: this post is self-satirical in nature. It should not be read by the sarcasm impaired.
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| Image credit: Photo by DaveAustria.com on Flickr Licensed under Creative Commons |
So, you know, I'm not really codependent. (I hate that word anyway. Sincerely I do.) I just like to do nice things for people. Really nice things. Like that time in college when my boyfriend's parents were going to come for a visit and I helped out by vacuuming his carpet. Only he wasn't actually my boyfriend, but I wanted him to be, and I didn't, technically, vacuum the carpet, I went a little overboard, which really was not my fault because I couldn't find a vacuum.
Ok, let me explain. I was enamored of this guy I met my freshman year, and I was pretty sure that, if I just worked hard enough and did well enough, I could eventually get him to ride off into the sunset with me after which we'd live happily ever after, enjoying the ripeness of our golden years in our house with a dog and a white picket fence and grandchildren bouncing on our knees. And one day just before his parents were due to arrive for a visit, I saw the perfect opportunity to prove my everlasting devotion and put him so deeply in my debt that he would have to consent to, if not ride off into the sunset, then at least go buy the horse.
He had tidied up his little ten foot by twelve foot room and was frowning down at the carpet remnant that covered the floor. "Too bad I couldn't vacuum it," he said, "Oh well. I have to leave for class. What about you?"
"I don't have anything right now. Is it ok if I hang out here for a little while? I'll lock up when I leave," I said, slyly.
"Sure," he said and left for class.
After he left, I set off in search of a vacuum, thinking I'd quickly run it over his carpet as a surprise. When I couldn't find any available (at least none that were working at the time; although I did hear tell of fabled vacuum cleaners that had been working just days before), I refused to give up. I went back to his room, and as I surveyed it, I had a brilliant idea. I might not be able to get up all the dirt, but I could at least make the carpet look better; I could clean the floor the way I sometimes took lint off a sweater: with tape. So I wrapped tape, sticky side out, all around my hand, and on my hands and knees I got to work painstakingly clearing all visible debris from the carpet that no one asked me to clean.
When my soon-to-be boyfriend returned from class, I showed him the room with a flourish. At first, he didn't notice anything, but given time (and sufficient prodding from me), he said, "Oh! The carpet! Great. Thanks. I guess you found a vacuum cleaner." Suddenly ashamed to admit that I'd just spent the last hour all but licking his floor clean with my tongue as an act of devotion, I said, "Yes, I did. Took like 10 seconds."
"Well, that was nice of you. Thanks. See you later."
Not the ticker tape parade in my honor it should have been, but I was laying that groundwork in my niceness. (That wasn't codependent, right? I'm pretty sure codependent would have been doing that on a much larger room he never asked me to clean.) But folks, here's the important part: it sort of worked. We dated for years. And it's not my fault that we broke up because I couldn't sustain that level of working hard enough and doing well enough at things I was never asked to do or that he didn't work that hard or do that well in return. Still, that's the kind of healthy, successful dating relationship that's totally going to get me published in Sexual Codependents Magazine Cosmo someday.
This post was originally published at The Second Road.
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