I can’t eat green pepper. I can’t eat a lot of things. The older I get, the more things I need a certain way to keep me happy.
When I was four years into a past relationship, I knew it was in trouble when the boyfriend started adding green pepper to everything he served me.
“Why are you picking out the green pepper?” he asked.
“You know I can’t eat it,” I said.
“Sure you can!” he argued.
Another day I couldn’t find the shoes I’d just worn.
“Wear different shoes!” he said.
“I need to find my orthotics,” I said.
“Go without them,” he said. “You don’t need them.”
“Excuse me, Fred Flintstone, I don’t have thick feet with good arches,” I said. “My feet are flat.”
“So what will happen if you don’t wear them?” he argued.
“My back will hurt,” I said.
Another time the boyfriend was walking my dog and let him off the leash in a state park as we climbed a trail on Mount Diablo. The Dachshund disappeared into the scrub brush below the trail.
“WTF?” I said. “Go get him!”
“Dogs need to run free,” he said.
“A coyote will eat him,” I said.
“Let’s keep hiking,” he said. “He’ll catch up.”’
“Go get my dog,” I said.
The shirtless boyfriend disappeared into the scrub brush and emerged a few minutes later, covered in scratches, but holding one ten-pound wiener dog.
Another time, the boyfriend and I were lifting a big wooden deck box with a plastic lid out of my truck so he could borrow it to help his son move. I didn’t have my grip yet, and when he yanked it out of the truck the deck box slid down my finger, a sharp edge of the hard plastic top ripping it open.
I screamed and ran into the house. I pulled off my ring and wrapped my finger in a towel. I ran back outside.
“Take me to the ER!” I said.
“It’s not that bad,” he said.
“Take me to the ER,” I said.
“Let me see it,” he said.
“Take me to the ER,” I said.
He finally agreed. I became lightheaded in the car and leaned against the window.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he said.
When we got to the hospital, he dropped me off and left to go back to my house to close up the truck and get the deck box off the street. Meanwhile I got four stitches in my finger.
To his credit, the boyfriend cooked me dinner for a week after that.
On our last New Year’s Eve together, at a dinner dance party with a balloon drop, he ran around stomping on them like a little kid. Unfortunately, he also stomped on my foot.
“You just stomped on my toe,” I said.
“No, I didn’t,” he said.
“Yeah, you did,” I said, suddenly wanting to sit down.
Six months later the toenail on my big toe fell off.
I called the podiatrist.
“Hi, my toenail just fell off, but there’s no blood.”
“That is an old injury,” the receptionist said. “You don’t need to come in.”
As you can tell, the boyfriend didn’t listen to me. He had his mind made up on a lot of things. He believed what he believed. He had no empathy.
We aren’t together anymore.
Sure, there were lots of good times, but when I needed him in my corner, he wasn’t there.
He was too busy thinking up ways to put green pepper into my food.
Couldda Wouldd Didda
I let him go.