Choosing my battles

Two mornings ago Shane put on a new pair of pants, ripped the tag off, and threw it (violently) to the floor, all in one motion. Why, I asked him, did you do that? He said it was easiest. Post evil glare, he picked up the tag and  threw it in his closet. Again, a stare of disbelief. He kept eye contact as he reached down, picked it up for the third time, and put it in a Jcrew bag sitting on the floor. It was an empty, ready to be thrown away bag, but not a garbage can. Good enough, Shane, good enough. A minute later. I kid you not, a minute, I walked into the bathroom and there was a different tag from the same pants sitting on our sink. I chose my battle. I am not good at doing that, but I made a conscious decision at 7:30 in the morning before coffee, to choose my battle, and not say the unpleasant things I was thinking at that moment.

I love him. And I am sure that I do things that make him just as crazy (eh hem, my lack of taking out the dog), so until I become perfect, I will try my hardest to choose my battles. 

Just choosing, choosing away, ch-ch-chooooosing. I even made a little diddy up about it.

I don't think I am the only one out there who constantly reminds themselves about choosing battles and sings little diddies in their heads. Right? Right? Shane, do you think about it when I am being a pain? Do you?

**Shane's response to the post (before I post)...

Is this a scathing letter to me camouflaged as a blog post? Did you take out the part about my pretty face?