Fighting with My Husband About Finding Shit

Daily, my husband and I have at least one argument about his inability to find stuff. Usually, he wanders through the house as though he’s never been there before, eyes wide, scratching his head, yelling, “Babe! BABE!” It’s about this time that I decide to take a shower or walk the dog or pretend to read because I know what’s coming.

Earlier this week, I was in the laundry room folding clothes when I hear the water in the shower turn off. “BABE? BABE!” he starts, “Where are the towels? Babe? Where do we keep the towels?” I grabbed my clean clothes and ran upstairs irritated and ready to murder him. I barged into the bathroom,

“Can you please tell me how it’s possible you can’t find shit? Like ever? HOW!? Babe, we live in the same Goddamn house!”

He tried to look helpless, all dripping wet and cold, “I don’t know. You’re better at finding stuff than me!”

I put my hand on my hip to indicate a level of seriousness, “Yes, F, that’s it. Finding stuff is my fucking superpower.” If any of you out there are thinking about marriage, this is it, guys. Bask in the glory. It seems that in every relationship there is one person who is the all-powerful finder of shit and the pitiful loser of shit.

For a second I thought, wow, I am better at finding stuff but then I realized it was a trap. He was complimenting me so I’d take pride in my seemingly magical abilities to find his shoes, socks, jock strap, cereal, and the dog’s leash on a weekly basis. I remembered the way he made his mom locate everything for him last year when we were staying at his parent’s house in Italy. Light bulb moment: He sucks at finding stuff because for his entire life he’s feigned helplessness and everyone (his mom and me) jumped to help him.

“You’re just saying that so I’ll keep helping you! I’m onto you, fuckface!”

He started laughing, “Yes, babe, it’s a big plan to enslave you into being my finder helper.”

“Exactly! Well, drip dry, buddy! I’m not helping.”

“BABE! PLEASE!”

And I caved and got him a towel, swearing I’d never do it again.

For the sake of fairness, I ask him if he’s seen my stuff, too. The difference is that it’s like once every two months and he never gets up to look. He’ll usually just get all blank faced and go, “haven’t seen it,” before he goes back to binge-watching American Idol or Ellen on his iPhone.

I’ve wondered many times why I do it. Why do I rush to find his beanie or face cream? I’ve asked my friends who are also finders why they do it. We’ve come to this conclusion:

It makes us feel like martyrs.

It makes us feel important and elite.

We are control freaks and would rather do things ourselves which turns our partners into helpless asshats.

Their mother’s or fathers broke them and we take pity on them for it.

In my case, I think it’s a little of everything above, in addition, there’s a part of me that helps because in many other areas F is by far more on top of shit than I am. I’m the one who falls down all the time while trying to pet a stranger’s dog, I’m the embarrassing one that will start singing Dolly Parton in the soup aisle of the grocery stores, and I’m the one who will “accidentally,” spend 90 dollars on Amazon for a “very cute bread box.” I give him shit, but deep down I’m also aware that relationships are given and take and while he couldn’t find his ass from a hole in the ground, he’s very good at remembering to change the oil, is an expert at yard work, and only yells hysterically for a short period of time when I internet adopt various animals in Africa for an obscene amount of money.

This is marriage, guys.