Don't Groom Me

I hate being groomed.

We all have those friends or family members who cannot concentrate on anything other than the tiny piece of lint or the skinny little thread on the back of your shirt. Eventually, they reach out, without invitation, and pick or brush it off of you.

Then relief floods over them, and they give this look like, "Whew! Now I can make eye contact."

It's as though that random particle they removed was more important than the stimulating conversation you're sure to provide.

I don't like being touched spontaneously. I could care less about lint or stray hair on my clothes. I work with five hundred elementary students five days a week, and I am a mess by the end of the day. If I make it to 3:15 without coffee all over my blouse and a skirt that is twisted around backwards and riding up my waist, I am happy.

My best friend throughout junior high and high school never once groomed me. I am convinced that is one reason we stayed such good friends over the years.

My husband, Dan, does attempt to groom me, mostly to irritate me. He picked at some weird fuzzies on my shirt once or twice and liked the reaction he got. Now he does it all the time.

He will pick at a permanent spot on my neck or face that looks like a smudge or lint.

I'll yell, "Ow!" and he will laugh and do it again.

If we are at dinner, and I have something in my teeth, he will stare at my teeth or pick at his own teeth in some kind of silent groomer's code while we're mid-discussion.

In I Remember Nothing, Nora Ephron writes, "It's very sad to look in the bathroom mirror and realize you've spent the last ninety minutes with spinach on your tooth. Or parsley. Which is an even more dangerous thing to eat. And that none of your friends loved you enough to tell you."

So, I guess if the thing in my teeth is that distracting, it's alright to tell me. You don't have to make up special gestures to discreetly get your point across. Be prepared though. I might roll my eyes if you interrupt my train of thought just to tell me I have a peppercorn stuck to my tooth.

The other day, I used a Tide to Go pen on the shirt I was wearing. Dan entered the room, ready to say something to me. He stopped dead in his tracks and poked at the spot the stain stick had left.

"I did this on purpose! I am very aware of it. Stop acting like I am some kind of slob!"

"You kind of are," Dan said with a laugh.

Of course, I can swat at my husband, but I don't think it is socially acceptable to do that to other people. Apparently, it is okay to pick at someone's clothing without permission though.

I am not observant enough to groom people. I don’t notice if they have lint on their shirts or tags sticking out in back. If I do notice something, I am self-absorbed enough to chatter away and ignore it.

Occasionally, I will groom my husband. I figure I owe him.

Dan often has stray strands of hair hanging off of his chin. I think his beard attracts the hair when the strands shed, and they stick to his beard like Velcro. I have been known to grab those pesky hairs from time to time.

The last time I did it, he yelled out, "Ha! Don't groom me!"

"Why not? You’re hairy," was my response.

Turnabout is fair play, you know.

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