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Mi Casa Es Su Casa

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When I was a kid, we didn’t have a swimming pool, but we had something amazingly similar: neighbors with a swimming pool. The kind of neighbors that you didn’t have to ask if you could use the pool, the same neighbors whose kids enjoyed our trampoline the way we enjoyed their pool. Taking it for granted was part of the deal. It defined the arrangement. If there had been elaborate permissions or expectations in place, we probably wouldn’t have felt comfortable “treating it as our own” as they insisted. And we did. The contents of our pantry were open to them and vice versa, in case of mid-recipe realizations. We were friends close enough to be family, and all was good.

This afternoon, a realization hit me like a lightening bolt – I’ve inherited this definition of close friendships, ‘insisted on it even, but sometimes find myself unsatisfied with the results. I’m all, “mi casa es su casa, don’t even think about asking.” Which I’m happy to do, but then if the same “please treat me as your servant” attitude doesn’t get offered in return, I feel a little hurt. Which is completely unfair, because most of the time, the recipients of my generous offer never even asked, so why should they owe me anything?

And yes, I realize the hypocrisy of this post on the heels of my “discard all expectations” exhortion just a few weeks ago. I didn’t say I had conquored it quite yet…

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One response »

  1. For the record, mi casa es su casa. Of course, I also look forward to crashing on your sofa in the future.

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