He Thinks Your Feedback Is Nagging

by J. Keith van Straaten

My father, who kept industrial-grade acetone in the house to perfect the kitchen counters, was constantly after me about cleaning the “pig sty” that was my bedroom floor. “Man, I can’t wait to get out of here and get a girlfriend,” I thought. “I’ll never have to put up with nagging again!”

When I finally got my first girlfriend in college, I soon longed for Dad’s nagging — at least he was badgering me to do something that seemed possible. Melinda, by contrast, harassed me about not giving her enough attention and complained that I was smothering her, both in the course of 12 hours. Additionally, though I had successfully attracted her, I now “wore my clothes wrong,” “ate my food weird,” and “shouldn’t tell people that I’m studying poetry.” By the time my two-week relationship with her had ended, she alleged that my bad habits had caused her damage from which she’d never recover (though she seemed to do just fine when she landed her next boyfriend two days later).

Melinda was a sign of things to come: women would be into me, and then into changing me.

This isn’t to say I have been unwilling or unable to make changes. Yes, I am awesome; but frankly, if someone liked every little thing I did, I’d find it creepy and boring.  What makes a relationship interesting is the challenge and the discovery. Confronting me on my crap is exciting and even intimate. Doing it repetitively, loudly, and not noticing when I make adjustments?  That’s when it’s nagging.

Andie nagged me about an admittedly odd habit I have. I seem to flush the toilet before I completely finish using it. I get through maybe half of my bladder business and then reach for the lever while I continue my golden arc. Then, when I’m all tapped out, I flush again. I don’t know why I do this. I know it wastes water but I like to think I make up for it by showering like a French sailor–quickly and seldomly. My double-flush is something I probably wouldn’t have noticed until Andie pointed it out. Then she pointed it out again. And again. And again.  It would have been one thing if I did this in her home, but I didn’t; I only did it in mine.  Nevertheless, she would yell out from the living room, whilst I was midstream, “Don’t flush!” Or a guttural, agonized “Aarrgh!”