Bluebeard

In the house where I grew up my siblings and I, and occasionally our father, used to perch on the white, ceramic tiles of the counter, our friends rocking back on stools or balancing on the the counters beside us, backs resting against the light pine cabinets. One evening I walked into the kitchen and found my sister and her best friend there. I had realized recently that one of the benefits of growing older was that if I were quiet and unobtrusive I could hang out with my older sister and not be chased out of the room as the annoying little sister.

I sat there quietly perched on the counter and listened as the friend told the story of Bluebeard. I was amazed to hear a fairytale that I had never heard before. Especially one that was so scary my skin started crawling, even under the bright kitchen lights. It seemed such an odd story, whose moral puzzled me. Would the bride have been better off not being curious? What would have happened if she'd never opened the door? Would she lived out her life in peace, never knowing her husband's true nature? What would she have done if they key hadn't bled? As I got older the story no longer seemed strange. It seems now as though it was destined to be written because the human experience is so full of Bluebeard and his wife.

One of the guys I dated had a door that he never opened. I thought it was a hall closet and one day, looking for a broom, I opened it. "Wow!" I shouted and jumped back. The door only opened into a bathroom, but it was easily the scariest room I hope to ever see. While the rest of this man's house was perfectly organized and passably clean, this room had clearly never been cleaned. It wasn't simply dirty, it was covered in tons of little black hairs. Probably all the hair ever shaved during this man's residence in his house. They had covered the counter, the sink, and then tumbled onto the floor. I was aghast, and knew he would be horrified if he knew I knew about his Bluebeard room. There was no key to bleed (or grow hair) and give me away, what there was instead was my laugh. After the shock melted away, I couldn't stop laughing.

"I have to tell you something," I confessed, still laughing, when he returned to the kitchen.
"What?"
"I opened that door," I said, pointing.
"Oh no," he slapped his hand to his forehead. "I swear I was going to clean it."
"Whatever," I answered. "You've probably never cleaned it in your life. It's crazy. I've never seen anything like it!"
"You hate me now, don't you? I can't believe you saw it."
"I don't hate you, although, wow. Wow. Really, I'm at a loss for words."
"Listen, I lived with this girl for a long time and she used to go nuts at every little hair that would fall off my razor when I shaved and its HARD when you are as hairy as I am, not to have at least one or two little hairs now and then. And so when I became single again, I just went for it. I created a room just for shaving, where I never have to worry about any of the hair. And, um, I guess it's a bit out of control."
"A bit, you think? You've created Bluebeard's bathroom," I said. "That's pretty incredible."

Although this is the only physical representation of a Bluebeard Chamber that I've come across so far, we all have our Bluebeard chambers. Hiding them, choosing if and when to reveal them, deciding if you can live with your partners', and finding out if your partner can live with yours is all part of dating. It's challenging, but sometimes so rewarding, those moments of revelation that arise as we get to know each other better.