As far as relationships go, I’m in a really good one. I can’t make the claim that we never argue because we do. But Anson and I have been married now over eight years, and we kind of know our way around each other’s crazy.
Even so, we’re early enough in our relationship that while we’ve named our grievances with each other and discussed them and pointed them out and reiterated them, while we’ve illustrated them, created metaphors for them, and even given them nicknames (Mine? I’m “Grudge-Girl”. His? He’s “Alternate Plan Man”) we still haven’t learned to side step the landmines we know are there. In fact sometimes it looks like we step on them for sport, just to see if they’re still alive.
Case in point: today I had my one-gabazillionth consultation with a new doctor. I’ve had more appointments with specialists, surgeons and other medical professional industry workers for reasons that I can’t write about now (legal constraints and such – but will likely write about later if I can, because it is interesting stuff). Anson and I spoke about the appointment on the phone as I headed in to meet the doc, and then not again until he got home from work. And that man that I love with no end in sight, well, that man forgot to ask me how it went.
It’s not a fight it isn’t even a rift. But when I finally asked him, “Sooooooo, do you have anything you want to ask me?” and his wheels started spinning and smoke started pouring out of his ears and eyeballs trying to remember what he should be asking about and then it finally dawned on him and the familiar look of contrition, panic and the beginnings of epic apology making started, I knew we were in my country, Grudge Country.
Yet I’m not even mad and it isn’t really even an offense, so I don’t hold his feet over the coals for too long. But Anson feels bad long enough for me to wonder how many years do we need to be married until I’m that girl that just offers up “Soooooo……my appointment went like this…..” rather than the trap I set tonight?
I don’t know the answer, maybe it will never change, or maybe year ten will be the magical year or year fifteen or year eighty. I suppose if this is the worst problem we have in our marriage, we’re some lucky ducks.