On being difficult

I know what I am.

One of my friends messaged me the other day saying, “Should we give our white partners more points for living with us?”

“What do you mean?”

“I just lost my shit at [redacted] cos she doesn’t fold all her towels with the seam facing the same way. I only just got her taking her shoes off in the house and don’t get me started on dishes.”

I laughed because I just cracked it at my partner for not folding all the clothes to the same proportions or having crisp edges, but I assumed it was a habit I picked up from the few traumatic months I worked in retail.

Back when I was still living in sharehouses, my one rule was to not put my knives in the dishwasher. I took my shoes off in my bedroom because my housemates wore their shoes all over the house. I even partook in a battle of wills when we each claimed we each took the bins out too often and we kept precariously balancing rubbish like a game of smelly Jenga until someone would cave.

When I lived on my own, it was a different story. My habits started creeping back. I didn’t have to compromise for anyone.