The other night I was texting my sister over a disagreement she’s had with her husband. The same stuff everyone argues about, but never really argues about…know what I mean?
Anyway, it got me thinking about how much we actually fight about in relationships, but how much of it is never spoken.
So around 5:00 a.m. this morning I awoke and I could not get my mind back to its peaceful state. So at 5:00 a.m. I got up and jotted down the latest blog entry…
It’s 5:00 a.m. and I’m the only one awake. Bagheera did open one eye just enough to qualify as a glare and with that she’s back to sleep.
I don’t know exactly what’s keeping me-oh, hell, yes I do.
I’m tossing and turning, sighing and nudging because I need to talk and I’ve got no one to talk to.
Fil and I had an argument tonight-last night and though we’ve made peace, it remains unresolved.
This one involved maybe fifteen minutes of actual verbal confrontation, which, honestly, in my mind, before the issue was even raised, was going to be a five minute discussion ending with, “I understand and I love you.”
Oh, oh how naive thou art, little heart.
Instead the damn thing was a, “No, you listen!” vs. “Let me finish!” match.
(Now the garbage truck has arrived and Bagheera seems to think I’ve hired them specifically to disturb her.)
Anyway, after both parties realized neither one was being heard, I decided to leave. That is, after cleaning every dish in my cupboard twice over, making the bed to unmake it, and folding socks…
Oh yes, I left. And I didn’t just leave. I made a POINT to leave. I put on my stretchy pants, my sweater, scarf, and mascara and marched right out of the front door with every intention of “never speaking to him again.”
So there I was on Danforth making my way to the nearest bar with the cheapest beer.
As I walked a couple of things went through my head and being a writer, a DRAMATIC writer, I must admit the scenarios were Lifetime worthy.
“I’ll bet he’ll go find some sleaze ball to spill his feelings to.” “I bet he’s throwing me and the cat out on the street.” “If I come back and find another chick there…” And so on. Don’t you judge me. We’ve all been there.
I had a whole three-act play outlined by the time I reached the bar.
Now, anyone reading this that actually knows or has even just met Filipp is laughing. He would never do any of those things. In fact his best friends are probably laughing knowing that Fil poured himself a drink and went straight to work on some edits.
Meanwhile, my life is a travesty of love on Danforth. That might be my first novel.
So I make it to the bar and I strut in, meeting no eyes, making no friends. I’m like John Wayne walking in there. I order a Magic Hat no. 9 and begin my self, life, relationship evaluation.
I sit there pretending to know how the Red Socks are doing and really, really asking the big questions: Is there a God? How do we solve world hunger? If I give a $2.00 tip will I meet the $10 credit card minimum?
On my second draft I start to look around. Feeling things out. Checking the locals, smiling at overheard jokes, getting pissed at the game, etc. As I do so the door opens and in walks a nice female couple. I smile, nod, and sip. A moment later in walks another female couple. Smile, nod, “No, it’s not taken.” As I’m finishing the last of my beer I notice that, other than the band, there isn’t a single man in the bar. And the hefty broad at the other end isn’t grinning at me because she likes my choice of draft.
So, slightly embarrassed, I sheepishly slip out the door with a smile and wave to my blatant admirer.
In the end we apologized. Agreed to disagree and placed that argument on the shelf of Undisputed Disputes.
After relaying my adventure to Fil, he smiled, squared his shoulders, straightened his back, and claimed it was the Heavens intervening. Intervening because they know what a wonderful man I have. And off he sauntered to the kitchen to heat me some soup.
Ah, yes. I do have a good man. And though not every fight is resolved, though I’m sure we will revisit this one again, it may stop by for dinner in a month or two, I found that tonight it wasn’t worth it. And I hope I’ll remember that. If it happens again all I can hope for is a laugh.
We aren’t the perfect couple. We fight, we get annoyed, we pick, but in the end somehow, as Fil would say, “we fit like a jigsaw.”
Okay, I’m Carrie Bradshaw-ed out. And I’ve got to fight for some space on this bed.