Some people are generous.
They’d give you the shirts off their backs.
I am not such a person.
I would not give you the shirt off my back.
Not because I’m not generous.
But because it’s my fucking shirt.
And I like it.
So, no, you’re not getting my shirt.
Maybe I could help you find one of your own.
I’m sure there are charities that specialize in procuring and distributing shirts to those in need.
I could point you to one of those.
Perhaps I’d even make a donation.
That would, in a small way, increase the likelihood you’d get your shirt.
But you’re still not getting my shirt.
So just forget about that.
Bottom line, you’re not touching my stuff.
Any of it.
Why?
Because it’s my stuff.
“What’s the big deal?” my wife asks. “It’s just a stupid charging cord.”
Yes, but it’s my charging cord.
I’d come home to find her ear buds occupying the charging station I’d created in my little corner of the kitchen counter.
My corner.
My turf.
My cord.
I tried to be casual about it.
I see you helped yourself to my charging cord, I said to her.
There was not a hint of confrontation in my voice.
It was just a simple observation.
Intended to shame her.
For violating my space.
My sovereignty.
And for touching my stuff.
Which she knows is a huge no-no.
But, sometimes, she likes to stick it to me.
I’ll catch her walking out of my office.
Which she knows is off-limits.
I have a shredder in there, which I use to dispose of documents containing financial or other personal information.
My wife should do the same with her own documents, for sure.
And get her own damn shredder.
Or, simply ask me to shred her documents for her.
She instead prefers to take the lazier, more expedient path.
And goes into my office to use my shredder.
Which she knows I find infuriating.
But she makes a habit of doing it anyway.
When I protest, she’s dismissive. Or patronizing. Or both.
“Yup. Mmm-hmm. Sure,” she says. “No, you’re right. I definitely shouldn’t go in there.”
And she then pulls up a cat video to watch on her phone, as I’m standing there, just to emphasize how seriously she isn’t taking me.
Can you believe that?
And don’t even get me started about my shelf in the refrigerator.
All I ask is for my own, uncluttered space to put my stuff.
Which I use, like, every day.
It’s one of the little shelves in the refrigerator door.
See, I like to have a kale smoothie every morning after my workout.
The ingredient list is pretty extensive, containing a dozen or so items that I’ve worked to refine over the years.
Given the prep time required, I like to put it all together the night before.
I load up the blender and place it on a shelf—the same shelf, every day—in the door of the refrigerator.
Where I’ll often find water bottles or jars of condiments my wife has placed there.
Again, just to stick it to me.
I mean, she has the entire refrigerator.
Why use that shelf?
My shelf.
She’s doing you a favor, you might say.
She’s teaching you an important lesson.
When you live with others, you have to share.
Even the simplest of primates understands that.
If, for some reason, I am unable to do so, then I am the problem, not the other primates.
My wife should be free to use my charging cord.
And my shredder.
And my shelf in the refrigerator.
Provided those things exist in the home we share.
Which they do.
Got it.
Here’s the problem:
I grew up in a large family where sharing was encouraged, if not required.
Which had the perverse effect of discouraging sharing.
Take, for example, a simple box of cereal.
The sugary type was strictly forbidden in my house.
You know, the good stuff.
Cap’n Crunch. Count Chocula. Foot Loops. Lucky Charms.
If a brand of cereal had a commercial playing during Saturday morning cartoons, there was zero chance it would find its way into our pantry.
My mother was convinced we were all hyperactive.
So, all we ever got were Cheerios, Grape Nuts, and Raisin Bran.
Old man cereal.
Which kept us regular, but hardly satisfied.
To get a decent bowl of cereal, you had to spend the night at a friend’s house.
Where the friend’s parents would look at you quizzically as you got abnormally excited over a goddamn bowl of Frosted Flakes.
Anyway.
Every once in a while, my mother would spring for the name-brand Raisin Bran.
The real deal.
It was way better than the generic stuff we usually got.
Real Raisin Bran had sugar-coated raisins.
Which typically settled to the bottom of the box.
So, as my siblings and I knew, the best bowl came at the very end.
Whenever there was a decent box of cereal in the house, we all knew precisely, down the ounce, how much was left in the box.
And, when it got near the end, you’d have to wake up earlier and earlier to ensure you got the last bowl.
That last serving of delicious, sugar-coated raisins.
Scarcity encourages competition.
And fights.
Which often took place in the early morning hours in the kitchen.
Over cereal.
And it wasn’t just cereal.
It was everything else.
Sometimes, a well-intentioned relative would get us kids something nice for Christmas.
“Danny, you open it,” the relative would say, smiling.
As soon as I did, the relative would spring the trap.
“I thought you kids could share it,” she’d say.
Share it?
Fucking share it?
Are you kidding me?
That’s a terrible idea.
The last thing any kid wants to do is share a Christmas present.
Doesn’t everyone know that?
Early childhood traumas involving cereal, Christmas presents, Star Wars figures, baseball cards, and numerous other things shaped my adult views on property and the sanctity of one’s space.
That much is clear.
What’s also clear is my wife does not share these views, because she grew up with one, much younger sibling, her own room, an inground pool, and all the Coca Krispies she could eat.
That Barbie Corvette was hers and hers alone.
No sharing required.
It was kid nirvana in her house.
Still, I recognize that a mature, rational-thinking grownup should be able to set such differences aside and peacefully coexist with one’s spouse.
Which we mostly do.
Except when it comes to my stuff.
I’d like to say I’m working on myself.
That I’m making a conscious effort to keep my selfish impulses in check.
But the truth is I’m not.
And I really don’t care.
So, please.
Come on in.
Make yourself at home.
Let me pour you a drink.
Stay a while.
But this?
This shirt?
No, I’m afraid you can’t have it.
Because it’s my fucking shirt.
So just get your own.
Okay?