My partner and I have been arguing lately.
Likely because we’re at that point in a relationship where our “quirky” personality traits have lost their lusty splendor, and humanized into regular, every day irritations –
I was clearing the table after dinner last night.
In my view (which is, of course, the only one), I’d been helpful. The loving, easygoing girlfriend.
“Shit, did you clean this pan with soap?” I hear from the far side of the kitchen.
The aforementioned monologue in mind, I gripped down on the white plates that now peculiarly resembled killer frisbees:
An exasperated sigh. “Damn, okay. This one can’t be cleaned with soap or it ruins the bottom.”
He stared at it like a child grieving ice cream that just fell out of the cone.
I lost it in that beautiful way people sometimes do. Slowly, subtly, and then with a rip-roaring bang.
It’s always easy to consider ourselves even-tempered, until we’re not.
One soap wash – and it’s ruined? I asked, with biting sarcasm. Better buy a better pan next time.
He ignored me, purposefully, which I gathered by his effort to look over me instead of at me as he walked past with the soap-murdered skillet.
I acted accordingly: choosing to hurtle the two plates into the sink, and allow them to clank together – leaving a rattling, ear-piercing splendor.
He whipped around from his hunchback, introspective stance:
“You don’t have to be so Defensive Diana, Jesus. I’m just informing you.”
This is one of those “cute” things we did – nicknaming our more difficult personality traits to the tune of “Defensive Diana” (me) “Controlling Chad” (him) “Insecure Irene” (me) and “Tone-deaf Todd” (him)
In my awe-struck lust, little did I realize how irritating it’d be to have character flaws thrown back in my face in the form of alliterations.
It’s one thing after the other, I quipped. Now it’s the pans. Earlier it was the knife for the cheese board.
He interrupted. No. I just had a proper cheese knife and thought you’d find it easier to cut through hard cheddar.
He emphasized the word ‘hard.’
I lowered my eyes. And the lights, I said. I don’t turn on your bloody lights correctly.
Never said that, he said. But, I don’t understand why you turn them on FULL BLAST when I have the energy saver that dims them.
Because I don’t know what a fucking energy saver light socket is, I said. And I can’t figure out which button is which. So there. I’m just a dumb, energy-consuming consumer of America YET AGAIN. Please, oh PLEASE, teach me more. Do I compost correctly? Do I recycle the wrong plastics? Do I eat too many non-organic blueberries?
I stomped off to bed.
In retrospect, I overreacted.
He can be a control freak, but typically in a way where he truly believes he’s helping to make my life easier.
Oftentimes, it does.
Which infuriates me. Continue reading “This Is Why Your Eating Disorder Is Boring”