Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Once, when I was wide-eyed, innocent, and life held the promise of every possibility, I threw a dining room chair at John's head.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
Perhaps because it was.
Perhaps because it was.
No, no, just kidding: this was ages and ages ago, maybe even as far back as 2009.
John and I don't argue often. This is because - and I say this with as much humility as I can possibly muster - I am really, really bad at it. In fact, I have only two approaches to most conflict: a) self-induced coma, and b) bat-sh*t crazy.
Option A is my usual go-to strategy, and I've found it to be pretty effective over the years. It turns out most people lose interest in arguing with a slightly drooly, vacant-eyed zombie. Plus, my stamina is nothing short of legendary: I can slump motionless against a door for HOURS if need be. And never - ever- challenge me to a game of the Silent Treatment. I will win. And then I will stare at you, slack-jawed and slightly drooly, in silent victory.
Sometimes, though, on a few extremely rare occasions, going comatose doesn't work for me. These are the times when, say, a heated discussion between John and I suddenly ratchets up to "flambé" - or perhaps I'm feeling a little too feisty to slump over effectively.
These, my friends, are the times when dining room chairs may dream of flight. Albeit really short ones. (Flights, I mean. Not the chairs.)
For his part, John has learned how to argue with me quite effectively, which is to say he doesn't. Usually. He views the Silent Treatment as being up there with water boarding, and he's not fond of furniture being hurled in his direction, either, so together we've managed to keep most of our disagreements civil and conversational, as opposed to shouty and furniture-throwy.
Well, I did say "most."
On the occasion in question, when part of our dining room set briefly became airborne, I was, you must understand, deeply entrenched in Option B. And in my defense, the solid wood chair was so heavy I couldn't even get the thing over my head, much less aim accurately for John's. So don't worry; I didn't hit him. Not even close. In fact, as throws go, mine had to be the most pathetic flop in history. Imagine an enraged ferret attempting to successfully flip you the bird while balancing on a Weeble-Wobble, and you'll have some idea of the grace and poise I displayed during my failed furniture-lobbing maneuver. It's a testament to how dearly John values our marriage that he didn't burst into hysterical giggles then and there. That, or maybe he figured something a little more aerodynamic was up next on the throwing roster.
Anyway, the good news is that all of our fights always end the same way: with a hug. [awww]
Granted, this is usually more of a "restraining embrace" on John's part, since I might be otherwise occupied with my attempts to pummel him in the kidneys, but the point is we're eventually able to put our tempers and differences aside and focus on what's really important. Which is to say our mutual love and respect for each other. And also our regard for our furniture.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some chair lifts to do. That throw really was pathetic.
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