There are moments in life when a person becomes fed-up and decides enough is enough. And when it comes to personal space, that moment can lead to creative solutions. This happened to me recently with my mother-in-law, Monica.
Monica is one of those people who present themselves as sweet and caring in public, calling me “sweetheart” while hugging me at family gatherings. But behind this facade lies a retiree with an insatiable curiosity for my personal space, particularly our bedroom.
I married Richard three years ago. We live comfortably in a lovely suburban home, and life has been generally harmonious. However, Monica is the proverbial thorn in my side. Her criticism knows no bounds, and she insists on snooping around our private spaces.
Monica’s tendency to judge was well-demonstrated during a family BBQ. As I was busy in the kitchen, I overheard her boasting about her immaculate housekeeping skills and questioning my home’s neatness. Nothing in our home escaped her critique, from the conditions of our rooms to the food we served.
It wasn’t long before her prying eyes turned towards our bedroom, her fascination with snooping reaching new heights. One incident took place during a family dinner. Monica claimed a need for a “private” bathroom – conveniently located near our bedroom – despite the presence of a perfectly good guest restroom downstairs.
This charade occurred once too often, so I finally confronted her. Much to my frustration, she was unfazed by the confrontation and tried to disguise her actions with atrocious excuses, indicating she had gotten turned around. Her antics were thinly disguised as “helpful” suggestions for organizing my dresser.
After much persuasion, Richard agreed with my decision to install a lock, trying to balance his position between the longing for his mother’s approval and respecting our privacy. Unfortunately, this didn’t deter Monica for long. The excitement of crossing the line in our own home did not cease despite multiple failed attempts on her part.
Reaching my wits’ end, I prepared for the next visit with a unique plan. As Richard and I prepared for another family event at our home, it was evident that this dinner would follow the usual trajectory—the prelude to Monica’s inevitable climb upstairs under the guise of “powdering her nose.” This time, I would be ready.
At the start of the evening, the usual criticisms of our house surface did little to dampen the mood as I awaited the spectacle to come. After dinner, Monica excused herself, and her scream echoed through our home mere moments later. The image that met our eyes proved cathartic; there she stood, covered head-to-toe in glitter.
The carefully balanced glitter trap above the door worked wonders. What ensued was panic, anger, and a newly decorated living room with golden sparkles. Sally, my sister-in-law, rushed to her mother’s side, exclaiming over the state of Monica’s “new cashmere sweater.”
Richard was less than amused by my tactics, claiming I had gone too far, while Monica demanded explanations amidst her glittering rage. I calmly highlighted that her respect for our privacy would have spared her from the blingy fate.
The evening ended with Monica and Sally, humiliated, storming out like a chimera from a disco ball. Late that night, Richard tried voicing his disappointment, and I acknowledged the thinness of his ensuing argument.
It was a risk worth taking; sometimes, drastic measures are needed to underline a point. Monica learned a sparkly lesson in personal boundaries, and since then, the space between us and her inquisitive eyes grew wider.
Who knew that glitter would be a guardian of sanctuaries, weaving its magic and sealing the door behind the continuum of “acceptable behavior” and prying eyes? And that, my friends, marked the end of the glittery saga—at least until Monica pulled another stunt. But seeing how she hasn’t tried since, I consider it a victory.
