Quarantine brings out the worst and best in me, that's a lie, it absolutely only brings out the worst in me. Paul and I have been on a three-day fighting bender with just enough time to recover from one before the next one begins.
Two nights ago I got angry with him because I decided to stay up and watch a movie and he had been looking forward to having the night to himself. He began questioning me about why I was staying up; I thought you were trying to catch up on sleep; wait, you're watching a movie, I thought you weren't going to watch TV all week. I kindly asked him if he was looking forward to having time alone, with all the sweetness and sincerity I could muster in order to bait him into answering honestly to which he replied, yes, a little, I like having the place to myself sometimes. And that was the end of it. I scooped up my things, told him I didn't want to be anywhere I wasn't welcome and went straight to bed. The next day was riddled with ugliness and drama.
You should have talked to me about going to bed late and prepared me, we had a plan!
While you cancel your plans all the time, at least, for the most part, I do what I say!
It was literally just one big vile shit show between two clearly overgrown teenagers. In the end, we begrudgingly sat on the bed, cross-legged, with our heads down, mumbling apologies for every stupid thing we said to each other.
I'm sorry I made the jacking off comment.
I'm sorry I told you that you should stick with a bedtime.
I'm sorry I yelled at you and said you were a manipulative liar.
I'm sorry I was such a dick to you.
Honestly, this should have been the end of it, but you hurt the pride of a woman such as myself and it never ends there. He told me he loved me and I gave my final speech for the evening.
Paul, I am a prideful woman and I made you a nice dinner last night and ordered you new shoes and in return you made me feel like a burden in my own home, so from now on I am going to come straight to the bedroom after we put Jude down until I feel safe to spend time in my living room with you without fearing I'm not welcome.
I'm cringing at the recollection. So, of course, he did what any slightly unnerved husband might do, he went into the living room and blasted my favorite movie on TV, the music of Quentin Tarantino chimed through the cracks of my bedroom door as I fought not to listen and to continue with my resolves.
This morning, after a strangely great night's sleep filled with dreams of bringing down Don Draper and giving myself a shag haircut with a pair of craft scissors, I sipped my coffee and realized what a fucking child I am. I actually want my husband to become pierced with such extreme loneliness that he eventually comes into the bedroom begging for me to come out and visit with him, the kind of plea that's gift-wrapped in promises of never being so foolishly misguided again. I don't honestly think these things in my brain when I'm concocting my little plans, I swear to God I don't. It's always the clarity later that brings a plethora of eye rolls and mortification as I slowly begin to realize that I am actually far more calculating and immature than I give myself credit for. Until I feel safe to come back into my living room. For the love of God is that not the most dramatic thing you've ever heard from a wife who is adored by a stupid and sometimes selfish but wonderful man?
I'm sure that I'll be on my couch watching Inglorious Basterds by the end of the day, for now, I just have to get up the courage to peel myself off the bed and face him with a smile of surrender. We are definitely both idiots but I am without a doubt, the most prideful and vindictive of the two of us.
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