For me, it’s my general stoicism. It absolutely drives her NUTS that nothing bothers me. IME a lot of men have this “problem”.
It’s not that nothing bothers me, it’s just that I don’t outwardly react to things. She gets upset that I don’t get upset about things in the same way she does. One part of me understands that, another part of me thinks that’s insane. Why would I react to things exactly the same way she does?
And when I don’t get outwardly upset about something it’s not because whatever it is doesn’t bother me (assuming it even does), it’s because I’ve already reasoned that getting outwardly angry or upset about [whatever] doesn’t help solve the problem. I’d rather spend my time and energy solving the problem instead of just complaining about it.
There’s the fact that I don’t make noise during sex, at all. It took a long time to convince her that I was actually enjoying our love making.
I don’t make decisions about trivial things, like what movie we’re going to see, or where we’re going to eat, etc. I usually just reply that it doesn’t matter, or I’m fine with what she wants to do.
The fact that I’m agnostic and don’t attend church.
2.) I hiccup once, and that’s it. She can’t understand how anyone can do this.
3.) When she performs the reflex test of drawing her finger up the sole of my foot, I don’t respond at all. Like all the women I’ve dated, Pepper Mill is a health care professional, and it bothers her that I fail one of her crucial tests for being fully alive and functional. I think she suspects me of being a closet zombie. Except that I snore.
4.) I read math books in bed.
5.) My incredible disappearing/reapearing birth mark. Sometimes it’s there, sometimes it’s not. Our running gag is that there are two of me, twins, and she never knows which one she;s sleeping with. We both snore, though.
I must get dressed alone, I can’t bear to have my husband in the bedroom whilst I’m dressing. I’m losing weight and changing shape at the moment, so I’m trying out different combos and clothes I haven’t worn for a while, and I feel really self-conscious about it if he’s there.
Airman’s biggest complaints are that I don’t turn the lights off when I leave a room, and that I leave the medicine cabinet door open. If those are my biggest flaws, I must be a hell of a woman!
Where to start? Hmm, letting my oldest cat (19-ish and deaf as a post) stand on me for long periods of time while he thinks about whether it is worth going to the trouble of lying down, especially when the cat does it while we are watching TV. I barely notice it but it drives my husband insane.
Also, I can’t remember his SSN. He knows mine for some reason, but I always have to ask him for his or look it up. Weird, since I’ve done our taxes for years and complete 90% of the forms that would ask for our SSN’s.
I don’t remember our anniversary. Well I’m not 100% sure but I think I know the date. And actually he doesn’t seem upset about this.
I talk back to the TV no matter what is on. I am a raving skeptic. When there is a reality TV show on that even remotely touches upon the paranormal or supernatural, my talking to the TV increases exponentially. If it’s Ancient Aliens or Alternative Medicine (homeopathy in particular) he can expect me to explode with rage.
I am also a militant agnostic, and it really upset him that I told him that when I die, I don’t care what he does with my ashes, he can throw them out with the trash for all I care, since it isn’t “me” anymore. And I won’t even be around to care anyway. He absolutely refuses to “desecrate” my ashes in this manner. So I told him to make some tea with them or something. He still wasn’t amused.
I really don’t know how he puts up with me to be honest. We have the same tastes in food, movies, books, etc. but personality-wise we are polar opposites.
I never get around to folding laundry. I wash it and dry it in a timely manner, and I try to hang stuff immediately because I hate to iron, but there’s an excellent chance that, at any given moment, there’s a mountain of sweats and socks and skivvies waiting to be folded and put away. (And yes, the big kids do their own laundry. And Mr. M has offered, but I don’t want him to do mine or the babies’, because he tends to do things like ruin bras or miss stains.)
