You Keep Unclipping the Velvet Rope and Wondering Why He Walks In

It usually starts with something so small that saying no feels almost ridiculous.

He wants to change the plans again. You were rather looking forward to the evening you had agreed on, but never mind.

“Sure, that’s fine.”

And off he goes, perfectly cheerful, having committed the astonishing offense of believing the sentence you just said. Meanwhile, you are already slightly annoyed, although certainly not enough to mention it and spoil the evening. So you smile pleasantly, say nothing and make one tiny adjustment inside.

And this is how some relationships accidentally become very exclusive private clubs with absolutely no control at the door.

The velvet rope is there. It looks beautiful. Champagne-colored, probably. Very elegant.

Unfortunately, you keep unclipping it.

Just This Once

Boundaries are wonderfully easy to admire when nobody is asking you to use one.

Then a man you love appears at the entrance with a perfectly reasonable face and says, “Would you mind if…?”

Well, you were rather hoping he wouldn’t, but saying no suddenly feels unfriendly, so before you know it the rope has moved aside and you are saying, “Of course.”

In he comes.

Nothing terrible happens. In fact, he has such a pleasant time that a few days later he comes back through exactly the same entrance.

You hesitate for a second, but the rope opens again.

By now, why would he think he is crossing a boundary? From his side of the velvet, you keep opening the entrance.

Meanwhile, on your side, resentment has begun ordering a drink.

Because you did not really want to change the plans again. You did not want his friends staying quite that late. You did mind when he assumed you would take care of something simply because you usually do.

But somehow every little no keeps coming out as a yes, and then you are disappointed that nobody noticed the difference. Of course, one little exception has a rather annoying habit of becoming two.

The Rope Has Become Mostly Decorative

Before long, the original boundary was somewhere around here, you think, although it is becoming difficult to tell because you have moved it about six times. The first exception seemed harmless, the second felt petty to object to, and by the fourth you were in the awkward position of wondering how to complain about something you had spent weeks behaving as though you did not mind.

And now you are annoyed by a pattern that, from where he is standing, has looked perfectly fine all along.

The club, meanwhile, is thriving.

People are coming through the entrance. Coats are being checked. Someone has found the good table.

Meanwhile, you are standing beside the velvet rope wondering why the thing is doing absolutely nothing.

Madam.

You are holding the clip.

This is usually where resentment becomes quite creative. He asks for another favor and suddenly it is not merely a favor. It is the latest installment in a long and deeply annoying documentary titled Things I Somehow Have to Do Around Here.

He changes the plans and you think, Of course he does.

He leaves something for you to handle and now even the way he says “thanks” is beginning to bother you.

The poor man may have no idea anything is wrong. As far as he knows, the velvet rope has been opening for him quite happily this whole time.

Someone Has to Stop Unclipping It

Eventually, the club gets rather crowded.

You have said yes to things you disliked, agreed when you wanted to object, and produced so many versions of “it’s fine” that the phrase should probably have its own membership card.

Then one evening he asks for something quite ordinary, and somehow this perfectly ordinary request is the one that sends the velvet rope flying across the entrance.

No.

Absolutely not.

When he looks startled, you are almost offended by the surprise.

Really? After everything?

Except, of course, he was not present for everything. Much of “everything” happened quietly on your side of the rope while you were smiling and moving it out of his way.

And somehow you are furious that he keeps coming through while your own hand is still resting on the little gold clip.

Of course, if you have clearly said no and he strolls straight past the rope anyway, that is a very different club.

But that is not what has been happening here. Here, the rope has mostly been opening on command. So the next time he wanders toward the entrance expecting the usual easy passage, it simply stays clipped.

No speech. No trumpet. No emergency meeting.

Just a perfectly ordinary little boundary sitting exactly where you left it.

He may even survive.

And, rather surprisingly, the club does too.