99% of the interaction between my husband and I never makes the internet. I guess you could say I’m making up for lost times today.
And while that sounds promising and juicy and whatnot, I’ll make this very long story short. My husband and I fight. Bicker. Argue. Discuss. Yesterday our topic of choice was cigarettes and why he felt the need, after almost 7 whole months, to start smoking again.
I take this choice of his personally. I was rooting for him during the quitting stage. I was happy for him when it appeared that he achieved his goal. And I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when I made my discovery…but that’s beside the point.
Last night when I ever-so-sweetly asked him what made him start up again and how could we help him stop, he, in a not-so-roundabout way, blamed the entire thing on ME and a bullshit goof I had made that morning. I am still enraged.
It’s a classic game plan–shifting the focus to someone else. It’s not okay for him to look bad in anyway to anyone, but it’s perfectly acceptable to make me out to be the bad guy/stone cold bitch/jackass/fuck-up. Everything he does somehow always becomes my fault. I’ll own up to my own mistakes, when I make them. And I make a lot. And I know it. But this. Is. Not. My. Doing.
Besides, he’s been sneaking cigarettes a long time before yesterday morning. I know this for a fact. So, nice try.
And okay, you know what? Smoke. Smoke a pack a day. Smoke away $130 a month that we don’t have. Smoke away your health, smoke away the respect of your teenage children, smoke away your dignity and will power, SMOKE LIKE YOU MEAN IT. Fine. I don’t give a fuckity-fuck fuck fuck. (Well, I do, actually, but for the sake of this paragraph…)
I know he’s worried all the time. I know what kind of toll our financial situation takes on his stress level. I know how hard it was to quit. Caleb’s only one man. But he never admits defeat. He never shows fear. He never cries, he never asks for help, and he never–never–apologizes. He’s like a Cyborg who’s really good at UNO. Although I guess I would expect Cyborgs to be good at UNO anyway, so then he’s just like a plain old Cyborg.
I caught an interview between Barbara Walters and Will Smith in which Will Smith said something like: "Being married is the absolute hardest thing you will ever do." And I couldn’t help but agree. I was so pissed with Caleb–not about the smoking–that I could barely stand to sleep beside him last night. I want that apology. I want it so bad I can taste it. But with him, I know I’ll never get it. So I vent publically to you people. It is nature’s way.
He’ll come up behind me later, and tickle me, or soak me with the vegetable sprayer, and that’ll be his way of asking for a truce. I don’t have it in me to hold out for him to actually say he’s sorry. And that’ll be it. Maybe he’ll pick up cigarettes full time again, maybe he’ll quit forever–again. Maybe he’ll still use me as his fallback excuse for whatever he does wrong. Maybe I’ll be so mad at him I’ll accidentally kick him in his sleep on purpose. Maybe I’ll pour a cup of cold water on him in the shower. Maybe I’ll forgive him even though he didn’t ask to be forgiven. Would that make me divine? Yes, of course. Yes, I think so. I cannot deny my own perfection.
Maybe I’ll just stomp his ass at our nightly game of UNO.
Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.