Primo had suggested I help him and I told him no, he could go through his books just fine on his own and make decisions.
He said he wanted help.
I said he didn't need it and that I had no interest in watching him work - that I had plans of my own for the evening.
Oh! Let me ask you something.
If your husband tells you that he will be gone all evening at not one but two political events and that he will not be home before you go to bed because after the political events, he plans to go out to karaoke, and you make your plans to get cozy with your stack of library books and then he comes home at 8:00 p.m. because he "stayed too long at the first political event and there was not enough time to drive the 90 minutes to attend the second one" and he has stuff to do at home anyhow, does that mean you are obligated to change your plans?
That you are obligated to surrender your evening of what you had planned to be blissful solitude to have some Togetherness with your husband?
I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
So I was not happy at the idea of helping Primo get rid of books, although of course I totally support the idea in principle. I just wanted him to do it by himself.
Me: Why don't you go upstairs and get started? Pull the books you are sure you don't want and then, after you have made a first pass, I will come up.
Primo: No! I need you to help me!
Me: Why? Either you want a book or you don't.
Primo: You know I don't make decisions like that!
Me: Then how do you make them?
Primo: I need to pull out each book, one at a time. Then we will talk about whether I want it and about whether you want it and then about whether we should keep it.
Me: That does not sound very efficient.
This photo is a little shaky because Primo was all "Wooo!" because I was you know, standing by HIS STUFF and maybe TOUCHING IT. He got all panicky and I got annoyed. I took it after we spent 30 minutes pulling out books and tossing them in the "To Donate" pile. Thirty minutes of culling and yet it is still almost full.
This photo is better because it was in the hall and it's harder to touch his stuff from the hall.
Deep breath. Baby steps. Baby steps.
(And any time I get frustrated with having an unemployed, running for office husband, I remind myself that he is an unemployed, running for office husband whose parents no longer complain about how I eat bacon every Sunday afternoon.)