It's a miracle we don't kill and eat our lovers.
It's like we have a limitless capacity to handle their stupidity and all around inconsideration. At least I do, and that's odd considering what little patience I have for the human race, in general.
I thought, since Mike and I will have been together for 2 years later this month, that it would be super swell of me to get us on the finale of Canada's Worst Handyman (he loves this show), which I managed to do. Now, since he told everybody he knew to watch that one episode of that Debbie Travis All For One shit in which his face appeared for a total of 3 seconds, that he would be pretty pumped about being on TV. I patted myself on the back and wore a smug look of defiant self-satisfaction for the entire morning. Then I texted Mike and told him. I got back "wtf. i dont no if i want to b on tv".
Really? This is what we're doing? We are going to piss all over my efforts and pretend that we're not a total HAM? Fucking guy. Fucking asshole. Un fucking believable.
I was crestfallen. And once he got home he barely mentioned it. I began to hate him. I began to hate his footsteps in the kitchen and his stupid face and his stupid voice suggesting that we get to Zellers before it closes, bla bla fucking bla. I bottled this all up inside while still managing to give him my most convincing "I'm never having sex with you again" dance.
Aaaand of course he didn't catch on.
So here I am, wasting so much time (hours, in fact) trying so hard to win a fight that Mike has no idea that we're even having, and I eventually spontaneously combust into heaving, snotty wales of absolute misery. Mike still has no idea what's going on. This was in the car, by the way.
And after a big long pointless fight, Mike still has no idea how to handle this backhanded insult to my romantic efforts. I pretty much thought I was the greatest girlfriend/fiancee/wife that ever walked the planet and he just didn't give a shit. Not that he's coming up with any better ideas.
Anyway. We fight once in a while. The air in the basement is thick with awkward hostility and poorly disguised chagrin. But the beautiful thing about us is: I know this won't matter at all in 9 days, when I drag him to Niagara Falls to be on the final episode of Canada's Worst Handyman regardless of how unsure he is that he wants to be on TV. That's bullshit too, I hope you know. He would love to be on TV. And he would love you and everyone you know to watch it. Just you wait.