Journal from the Edge of Survival: My Porcupine Man

Most times, unless technology is being uncooperative or tools aren’t properly forcing parts into submission, Charlie is the King of Zen. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t whine. He might sigh, but that is the extent of his verbal expression of frustration.

Don’t get me wrong. He knows all the bad words and stuff, but only when there are coins in the dryer, or part A isn’t properly making love to part B, or if there is a computer in front of him. In those instances, he is a “Hulk smash” kind of guy, green skin and all. But the daily stuff that drives most of us crazy? Like… other people? He takes that in stride. He has an inordinate tolerance for crazy.

Don’t think I can’t hear you thinking it. “No wonder their marriage works.” Don’t look at me with that tone of voice. YOU’RE the crazy one. I’m not the crazy one. Shut up.

This makes things a bit challenging for my complaining, whining self (which perpetually seems to baffle Charlie. He doesn’t know what to make of it. Should he fix it? Convince me it’s ok? Run away in terror?), but I think it is probably better than having two of us bitching about the world non-stop in a stereophonic stress-fit. Because that could get old, fast. So… no, I’ll be the one who loses her mind while he continues to be the one who clearly does not understand the situation. It works for us. It’s a balance. We are acrobatically efficient.

My spirit animal, Carrie Fisher (Odin rest her soul), once said that in every relationship there is a flower and a gardener. Two flowers can’t live together, because they both need tending. Two gardeners can’t live together because they have nothing to tend.

Charlie is my gardener.

Which, of course, makes me the delicate little flower…but we already knew that. Some things go without saying. If you didn’t already know I am a flower, you just don’t know me at all.

But my zen gardener (who rakes the rocky footpaths of my soul on a daily basis) does have his quiet, almost invisible ways of expressing his stress.

One of them is a little more visible than the others, and those who know him well (including his work mates) are very aware of it. It appears on him like a sign saying “OMG CHARLIE IS STRESSED OUT WALK AWAY WALK AWAY!”

It is his hair spikes.

Hair spikes? Yes. Hair spikes.

Charlie has a self-comforting behavior that probably goes back to his infancy when nursing: he curls his little arm up, grabs a tuft of hair, and twists on it until it sticks up out of his head like Alfalfa’s cowlick. OMG you seriously have no idea who Alfalfa is? Damned millennials. Google. Sigh.

Anyway, when Charlie is particularly stressed out he might tug and twist small locks of his hair repeatedly until he looks like a porcupine. I have heard that his coworkers have developed a ratings system: “Oh shit, it’s a five spike day! Look out!”

Although his calm during the pandemic has been near saint-like (and don’t imagine that’s not just a wee bit annoying… I don’t want to be the only one crying because of cute animals on commercials and guzzling vodka from the bottle), I have noticed that when he finally wends his way out from his dining room workspace he often has a whole “porcupine in attack mode” thing growing out of his head. I can only imagine how amusing his video conferences are for the other attendees.

But… and this is making me sad…he’s doing it during non-work hours now, too. If we’re watching something on TV and any violence pops up, I see his hand sneaking up to his hair. If we’re talking about finances? Twirltwirltwirl. If I ask him to brave the zombie apocalypse and head out and hunt/fetch me something? Twisty twisty.

I’m trying to imagine what will happen when his scalp finally wins the battle against his hair and evicts it all and there is nothing left to twirl. Will he just fiddle with his skin? Will he find other nefarious things to compulsively twist? Will he reach out and try to dread-lock MY hair?

This, by the way, was my daughter’s particular nursing habit, and up until she was five or so I might feel the surprise-attack sting of a hair being yanked out of my head… while I was innocently watching TV or playing on the internet or doing the other neglectful things I was doing when I was supposed to be mothering… only to turn my head and watch her wrapping my hair around around her fingers because she felt nervous or unsettled. She even had a name for this particular imaginary playmate: she called each hair “zippy” because she could run her thumb up and down a taut strand and make a little zipping sound. But that’s a whole different blog entry, or maybe a topic for therapy. Either way, crazy hair habits obviously run in our family. Thank Zeus I’m the sane one. Shut up.

I look forward to the day this pandemic ends and I might see my calm, monk-like husband sans the spikes again, at least for one day (until his phone doesn’t upload that thing the way it should or the engine on his current pet car isn’t revving at the exact right per-minutes).

In the meantime, I will just continue to reach out my own hand and smooth his head once again and remind him that we will survive.

 

 

 

 

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