Scratchy red wool. Some kind of plaid. Royal-Stewart-Tartan-MacCallen-Something. My dad sent it years ago for Christmas. And because of that, the blanket is traumatic. No matter how many times you wash it, it smells like anger and tastes like cigar smoke and sounds like opera. The blanket sounds like opera. Yes. It is The Stupid Blanket That I Hate.
The Stupid Blanket That I Hate vies for a spot on the bed with The Beautiful Duvet That I Love: Smooth, sleek, lightweight, shades of lovely blue. It smells of fresh air and sunshine. It doesn't sound like opera. It doesn't sound like anything at all. But if it did, it would be the ocean or gentle rainfall or something soothing. Not opera.
My husband loves The Stupid Blanket That I Hate. He doesn't know that I hate The Stupid Blanket That I Hate. But he likes it and it makes him happy. He doesn't understand that it's wrong for the room and wrong for my head. He doesn't know how The Stupid Blanket That I Hate holds me in its thrall. And so he drags it out every fall like clockwork and throws it over the bed on top of the The Beautiful Duvet That I Love. So that when I look at the bed I am transported back to my childhood full of choking cigar smoke, raging temper tantrums, diagramless crossword puzzles (can you imagine?) and opera.
I try different ways of dealing with The Stupid Blanket That I Hate. When I make the bed, I fold it in half lengthwise and line it up on his side of the bed, covering it with The Beautiful Duvet That I Love, arranging the pillows meticulously to make sure that there is not one single centimeter showing. At night I get into bed gingerly, lest I pull back The Beautiful Duvet That I Love and see The Stupid Blanket That I Hate. When my husband comes to bed, I try very hard not to notice that The Stupid Blanket That I Hate is showing on his side. And then I snuggle under the Beautiful Duvet That I Love with my back to my husband and . . . well, you know.
The way that I have set up this scenario is an awesome piece of passive-aggression, if I do say so myself. The Stupid Blanket That I Hate reminds me of growing up unhappy and scared with my angry family in a house filled with cigar smoke and opera leaking out of the windows. And I get to blame my husband every time I look at it. He doesn't love me enough to see that, because I hate The Stupid Blanket That I Hate, he should hate it too and offer to help me get rid of it because HE LOVES ME THAT MUCH. But I guess he doesn't. Le sigh.
Sometimes I think that I am being ridiculous and I should just get rid of The Stupid Blanket That I Hate. Just ball up that bad boy in a Hefty Cinch Sak, toss it in the hatchback and off we go to Goodwill. But I'm not a monster. My husband likes that damn blanket and I can't help but see it as a metaphor for our marriage. I'm not willing to throw it away, even as unhappy as it makes me. I'll keep it around for his sake, but only if I can hide it and not have to see it or deal with it. Just like all the little issues you develop over the course of twenty years of marriage. You can deal with it. As long as you have a Beautiful Duvet That You Love to balance out The Stupid Blanket That You Hate. That doesn't smell like anger and taste like cigar smoke and sound like opera. No matter how many times you wash it.
