He couldn’t spell my name right.
My name is Hazel. It’s not exactly common, but it’s not super rare either; English, five letters, not so bad. And it wasn’t that he was dyslexic either — he was whip-smart, and had no problems with spelling anything else. His text messages were all perfectly punctuated. His grammar was on point. He’d proofread my work from time to time. It’s not a thing I would have expected him to have a problem with.
But in the three months we dated, I was a Hazzle, a Hazle, a Hazzel, a Hayzel and a Hayzell. Not once do I recall him getting it right. It got to the point where I thought he might be doing it on purpose, either because he thought it was cute or to annoy me, but no — it was just a complete blind spot for him.
It didn’t last. (For other reasons, but… damn, I mean, is it too much to want your name spelled right?)
Fundamentally, all of them. His mother basically anticipated that he would find a good woman to take care of him, so he was essentially treated as a child. He couldn’t cook, not even ramen. He didn’t know how to repair a car, didn’t understand how to clean, shop all. Not only did he fail to budget, he fundamentally had no clue how much stuff cost.
I refused to live with him
My husband can’t ride a bike. He was never taught.
How to use a can opener! I was literally blown away. How can a grown man not know how to use a car opener?
He was amazed with my sock folding skills. You know, when you’re folding laundry and pair up two matching socks side by side and then fold down the cuffs so that the socks stay paired up together. His reaction was like he had watched me perform brain surgery. Literally mind blown. I should have taken it as a sign.