The Selfish Man

I'm apparently a selfish man.  Not with everything though.

It comes from my being the oldest I suppose.  I do share things pretty well, but I'd rather not.  I've reported over and over again about how I couldn't wait to leave home when I was growing up.  I wanted to be out on my own, living my own life and doing as I pleased.  I don't know if there was a certain event during my childhood that caused it or not, but regardless--it's the way things are.

Back to my selfishness.  I'm somewhat selfish with my time, but not so much.  I usually don't have a problem giving someone else some of my time when they need it.  Sure, it's usually an inconvenience, but that's usually the extent of it.  This part of my selfishness is usually nothing more than just a sigh before offering my time or assistance.  Hardly worth mentioning.

What I do seem to place a certain level of importance on is space.  I like my space.  I need my space.  Sometimes I need to go out to the garage and putter around to escape.  Maybe I'm not in the mood for a certain noise or chaos or whatever and I just want some solitude.  Sometimes I might take a ride on the Harley to get away--Even in the dead of winter (although that hasn't happened in a while).

I need space for myself.  I need space for my stuff.  I need to know that nobody is going to mess with my stuff.  When I put something somewhere or some way, I like to know to expect it to be there next time I need it.

Maybe it's the fact that when I was growing up in Algona our whole family was crammed into one little one-bedroom house.  There was no privacy.  There was no "me" time.  There was no peace and quiet.  There was nowhere you could have anything of your own that wouldn't get messed with by someone.  I remember I did have a little box of 'treasures' when I was growing up.  I think it was smaller than a shoebox, but I can't begin to tell you what was in it.  I have no idea.  I just remember it was about the only "me" space I could claim as my own--a little box.

Now I'm older and I do have some stuff of my own.  When I was newly divorced I took pride in amassing new stuff.  Finding myself single again was the perfect excuse to gather the things I wanted to gather.  I enjoyed it.  I didn't have to ask anyone else's approval, I didn't have to wonder about anyone else but me when I chose something.  I took pride in keeping things nice, keeping things orderly, and basically just keeping things as my comfort of ownership.  I felt I really had everything I needed, and liked everything I had.  When I married Suzie, that got somewhat turned upside down.  A lot of my things were disposed of.  Most were discussed--a few maybe not.  After all the turmoil, I resigned myself to only having a certain level of ownership here in this house.  Basically, I live in the spare bedroom that used to belong to Dane.  I don't sleep there, but all my clothes are there, and all of my possessions are there.  I don't have a place to hang any of my pictures, but I still own them.  Suzie said I could hang them any time I wanted but the more I thought about it, the more I felt like they just didn't belong.  Like it was the wrong house or something.  Most of what is back there in that room is junk to anyone but myself.  Some of it is junk to me as well--I just don't want to part with it yet.

Now thanks our country's financial woes, so many people are struggling to find work that it is common for people to be moving back home.  Across the street from us there are multiple families living under one roof.  Sons, daughters, grandkids--whatever.  Keith continues to live here of course (when he's not at his dads house) but now, through no fault of his own, Dane will most likely be moving back in.  I like Dane.  He left because he was uncomfortable with me moving in.  I suppose it was partly that I was a new guy and was with his mom, but mostly because I am not a Witness.  Dane is very active within his congregation and here I come along--an outsider.  He left then, and to his credit has done a very admirable job of staying employed doing anything and everything he could and working hard at it.  He's a smart kid though, and he should be working at a better career than the manual labor he has been slaving at during his years working with tile and construction.

Now I have to give up that room.  That's where all my clothes are.  That's where I get dressed in the morning at 0-dark thirty every day before work.  That's where all my useless treasures live.  It's a more than a little unnerving.  I know I'll get used to it, but I can see myself needing to escape from time to time.

I guess nothing in life ever stays the same does it?