I’m a bit stressed out writing this because all week I’ve been planning this one blog and then I just went and did something stupid and ridiculous, which I just now realized is a much better story. But I have no idea if I can tell it as well.
Also I don’t have any hilarious pictures of this little doozy. For which my husband is exceedingly glad. As I write this, he is sitting on the bed next to me, pretending I don’t exist – so I can tell he’s still pretty mad.
Right after I post this, I’ll call my oldest friend, Stephanie. I can already hear the gasp of astonishment, like she’s saying, “Because I live in a comfortable house with a backyard and a deck and separate floors with rooms and doors that lock – simply tonnes of places to escape my spouse – I can’t imagine why two sane people would sit next to one another on a queen-sized bed, arms crossed, planning their respective divorces and hot rebound sex with some nameless, gorgeous whomevers instead of … oh I don’t know, talking?”
Welcome to married life in fucking Yaletown. This is a community full of 900ft2 apartments, where a family of four tries to pretend that they’re all not seriously getting on each other’s nerves. There are plenty of benefits to this lifestyle, but all I’ll say about that right now is that the small spaces force us to do our living outside.
Which is why I chose to air some dirty laundry on the field in the middle of the school’s annual BBQ Carnival Fundraiser. I have no idea what made me turn to my unsuspecting husband and say, “So where is all this anger coming from?”
He shot me a look, which I can only describe as exhaustion mixed with deep annoyance and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
To which I replied, “You’re not being honest. I can feel how distant you’re becoming. I feel like we’re not connected at all and I feel like you couldn’t care less.” and with this, I just burst into tears. But I’m instantly embarrassed so try to pretend that I’ve got allergies. While my husband hisses to my daughter, “Get your stuff. Time to go home” And I’m not even drunk. I’m totally sober, wondering if this is what menopause looks like or if my mental illness is becoming even more mental.
But we couldn’t get out fast enough. In the 6 seconds it took my daughter to grab her book bag, 4 moms I know come by to start a friendly conversation, see my face and make a bolt for it. I got a couple of pity looks and one solidarity sista look. And then this one woman passes by making an exaggerated attempt not to notice the scene in front of her, but I can see her taking it all in and I just know what version of the story she’s dying to tell anyone who will listen. By Monday, a dozen versions of my little public meltdown will be whispered in a dozen different coffee shops. She’ll tell mutual friends and strangers too all with fake concern, but will paint a picture putting me in the worst possible light, “Well of course everyone fights from time to time, I mean we’re all only human, but things must be pretty bad for them to do it in public like that. I just feel so sorry for him. He’s such a reasonable, private person.”
And you have a bizarre need to consistently behave like an asshole, but at least I can medicate my problem.
Now what’s rattling around in my head, while I also consider the best way to begin an apology, is – is this little scene an example of me being a hormonally-unbalanced, weirdo or have I just hit that point in my mid-life crisis where the boundaries of who I’ve been trying to be and who I actually am are starting to collide and I’ve just stopped giving a fuck?
I guess time will tell.
What explosive impulses have you been stuffing down these days? Are any starting to trickle out?