I peeve the way you don’t mind being a few minutes late. I peeve the way “a few” can mean anywhere from five to 20.
I peeve the way everyone takes to you so naturally, when I have to work harder and care more about cultivating my approval rating. And I really peeve that I know those things are correlated.
I peeve the way you rarely rest. The way your motor’s always running. The way you clearly don’t love our couch as much as I do.
I peeve the way you so quickly and enthusiastically point out Tom Brady’s minor faults.
I peeve that you have an answer for everything, most of them starting with, “I was just listening to a podcast about this!”
I peeve the way you aren’t afraid to tell me how I peeve you, when my idea of dealing with peeves is to keep them to myself and avoid discord.
I peeve it when you don’t entertain my admittedly inane hypotheticals, instead of flexing your creativity and sense of humor, which I enjoy so much.
I peeve the way you suggest we go for an indulgent meal and always end up ordering something between “hardly a cheat” and “maybe half-cheat,” if we’re grading on a generous curve.
I peeve the way you think I can do so much more that I think I can, putting the onus on me to rise to the challenge.
I peeve how much easier it is to come up with a list of peeves about me than it is to come up a list of peeves about you. For example…
You peeve the way I brush my hair. You call me Leslie, as in the man’s name, my brushed-hair alter-ego, who horrifies you.
You peeve the way I don’t run as much as you, wasting my talents and my long legs.
You peeve the way my glasses are constantly smudged, asking me how I can even see anything. Sometimes life is has blemishes, and sometimes it doesn’t have lens cleaners handy.
You peeve the way I early-plan and over-plan, stressing you out when you are not up to speed.
You peeve the way I don’t spell as well as you. Or that my grammar isn’t a priority in emails and texts. Sry.
You peeve that I am never the impetus for cleaning the house. That in a vacuum, I would probably never use one.
You peeve my puns.
You peeve the way I tuck in my undershirt, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not, which no one else can or will see, and keeps me warmer than untucking it.
You peeve the way I interrupt you, when I’m trying to anticipate the ending of your story, to demonstrate that I’ve been listening.
More than anything though, you peeve the way I peeve myself. Because for every one peeve you let me know about, you instantly and fervently quash 53 insecurities I list about myself. I am lucky you see me through such a different lens. Maybe it’s the smudged glasses.