The Tart recently asked me to do a post on personal boundaries. While it is true that I have some experience in this regard, I am not at all sure that this necessarily qualifies me to undertake the task. In fact, I suspect that anything I have to say on the subject would be a little bit like a person with a bullet wound trying to write a monograph on ballistics. Nevertheless, I told her I would take a shot at it.
You see, during the dissolution of my marriage, among the (many) connubial crimes I stood accused of, being possessed of an ungenerous spirit was pretty close to the top of the list. Consequently, when my ex-wife decided to return to the Fairest Cape for a short holiday, I nearly fell over myself to prove just how accommodating I could be. Kind of absurd, if you think about it, but overcompensation has never bowed to the tyranny of logic. I was so busy bending over backwards that I ended up with my head planted firmly up my arse+.
This is undoubtedly why I never noticed how deftly I’d been manoeuvred into acting as her taxi driver, factotum and general errand-boy – sort of like when we were still married, but without the sex. It took more than a week of running around like your proverbial winged insect with a viridian backside before I realised what was happening.
In the words of my sociopathic, but nonetheless eminently quotable, sister – “If you’re going to be a doormat, you should expect to be walked on”
+ don’t try this at home kids