It has been a week without tears, or mood swings, or arguments with Gary. Well, there was one argument with Gary Friday night, and it was notable how calm I stayed.
We went out for miniature golf, of all things, which was some degree of fun. There are no rules when we play miniature golf, and we don't keep score. My god, if my father knew I married a man who didn't play scrupulously by the rules ... every board game we owned had the rules circled in red and special house rules annotated by my father:
- The LOSER will be responsible for putting away the game.
- THE LOSER refer to the winner as 'THE WINNAH!'
- THESE ARE THE RULES.
After the game, I took his ass to Red Lobster, and when the waiter asked if we were there for a special occasion, I refrained from cheerfully answering "Because I slay!" I really wanted to ask how many people a day give the full Beyonce excuse for going to Red Lobster, but I did not.
Afterward, we were waiting at a red light when some other light changed, Gary saw other people moving, so he started to drive through the red light.
"RED LIGHT!" I screamed.
He slammed on the breaks, and then clutched his chest and yelled, "Don't scream! You almost gave me a heart attack!"
And then he went on ... and on ... and on. I calmly suggested that he might have yelled the same way I did had our roles been reversed. He might even yelled as loudly as he was yelling now.
I didn't cry. I didn't escalate. It was nice. It was like old times.
This is clearly some subconscious reaction to my decision to get medical or therapeutic assistance.