The luckiest.
"I assure you" is probably one of the most misused and abused phrases in the English language, throughout history. We always use it when we're trying to force something that really shouldn't be forced, like confidence in someone or something. From the oft repeated "I assure you, sir, my daughter is still a virgin" to the somewhat less common, "I assure you, ma'am, this car is perfectly safe." Always in sight of some dubious contradiction.
But SERIOUSLY, there should be a rule that the only context in which one can use the "assured" phrasing is the context where you are the person being assured: "I feel assured," or "We were assured," because who else knows if any bloody assurance has actually been achieved?
I've been reading too much period fiction lately.
Also, I have realized that I am lucky. I don't know why an argument with Calvin makes me feel this way, but it does.
Last night, Calvin was smacking the mattress and throwing pillows around when we were talking in bed, and even though I asked him not to, he was having too much fun to listen. On principle, I don't mind any of this. What I DO mind is that we are the most poorly planned genetic couple ever, and for about a minute he forgot this.
Let me explain.
First of all, I have rheumatoid arthritis/fibromyalgia/ankylosing spondylitis/plantar fasciia/allergies/IBS (plus side effects of the various meds I take to control these things), and HE has psoriatic arthritis/ADHD/depression/anxiety, etc., plus the side effects of medications as well. Together, we are the worst possible genetic pool for children. Last night, his bouncing around on the bed I can only manage to make twice a week (at most) released all the dust mites and dead psoriasis that makes me an itchy, hive-covered misery. As long as he's going to photo therapy and using his special shampoo, my allergy to dust is at an all-time low. The second the stuff starts flying into my mouth, ears, eyes, and nose, though, I start to get itchy and swollen.
It's like this: a bit of dead skin/dust-mite fodder gets in my eye, and it tends to swell shut for about 6-8 hours. Because this usually only happens in bed, I can take some benadryl and sleep it off before most people notice. So I got mad, because I had asked him to stop. Then he got mad at me for ruining a cute, cuddly moment between us by being mad. I argued that he couldn't punish me for being upset when a) I'm not bothered by the whole psoriasis thing as long as he's taking care of himself, and b) I'm only upset because I asked him to stop, knowing it would happen. Somehow, this became an argument where he was convinced I was telling him to chose between his hair (the biggest psoriasis culprit) and me.
So I'm sitting in bed, blind without glasses or contacts (which I can't wear because my eye is watering like mad and nearly closed), and he's standing int he middle of the room, arguing with me, scissors in hand, telling me he never realized how much I hated his hair. Jesus Christ.
I can't remember how many times I told him I didn't want him to cut his deadlocks off in the course of the argument (which he loves - and everyone thinks that the first and only other time he cut them was because I MADE him), and asked him if he actually thought that was what I meant. He kept saying "Of course you do - how could what you're saying mean anything else?" until I told him, "If you think that's true, then you're an idiot."
Well. He stormed off and after awhile, I made myself apologize for the "idiot" comment, but stuck to my guns that he couldn't tell me what I'd meant, and by insisting otherwise he was breaking his most fundamental marriage vow ("I promise to really hear you," <-- Our vows were deliberately specific to things we struggle with, and deliberately realistic in that they were only things we could actually achieve. None of that "I'll love you forever" bullshit.).
He cried a little. Relief, I think, to discover that I was still the person he thought I was, not some crazy lady making him choose between two things he loved. (Which is something I'm always worried about, that he or people he cares about will think I am constantly trying to geld him or clip his wings or something just by trying to get him to brush his teeth more than once a day.) The argument also touched on how I am deathly allergic to his cat, but he brought her to live with us for two months anyway, despite all the arguments and pleading on my behalf, so the crying was also related to parting with this third thing he loves: his cat.
I really have to remember that he's just always looking for the fastest, one-time solution. It doesn't matter if vacuuming once a week and washing the bed covers twice a week would solve pretty much everything - he'll never think or remember to do that. He'd rather part with something he loves dearly because it would only have to be done once. I really, really have to try harder to remember that.
At the end of it, we fell asleep, curled together, skin-to-skin (he always requests that we be naked together after an argument, to really wipe the slate clean and re-establish intimacy) and feeling very... lucky. I'm fairly sure that we don't love each other the way most couples do when they get married; with all that adoration, expectation, and promise. We love each other "very honestly" as he says, with full disclosure of flaws and gross habits. It is constantly entertaining, and there are very few nasty little surprises.
I walked to work feeling like the luckiest woman in the world, which is odd for someone who very much wants to by may never actually be healthy, or a mother.
But SERIOUSLY, there should be a rule that the only context in which one can use the "assured" phrasing is the context where you are the person being assured: "I feel assured," or "We were assured," because who else knows if any bloody assurance has actually been achieved?
I've been reading too much period fiction lately.
Also, I have realized that I am lucky. I don't know why an argument with Calvin makes me feel this way, but it does.
Last night, Calvin was smacking the mattress and throwing pillows around when we were talking in bed, and even though I asked him not to, he was having too much fun to listen. On principle, I don't mind any of this. What I DO mind is that we are the most poorly planned genetic couple ever, and for about a minute he forgot this.
Let me explain.
First of all, I have rheumatoid arthritis/fibromyalgia/ankylosing spondylitis/plantar fasciia/allergies/IBS (plus side effects of the various meds I take to control these things), and HE has psoriatic arthritis/ADHD/depression/anxiety, etc., plus the side effects of medications as well. Together, we are the worst possible genetic pool for children. Last night, his bouncing around on the bed I can only manage to make twice a week (at most) released all the dust mites and dead psoriasis that makes me an itchy, hive-covered misery. As long as he's going to photo therapy and using his special shampoo, my allergy to dust is at an all-time low. The second the stuff starts flying into my mouth, ears, eyes, and nose, though, I start to get itchy and swollen.
It's like this: a bit of dead skin/dust-mite fodder gets in my eye, and it tends to swell shut for about 6-8 hours. Because this usually only happens in bed, I can take some benadryl and sleep it off before most people notice. So I got mad, because I had asked him to stop. Then he got mad at me for ruining a cute, cuddly moment between us by being mad. I argued that he couldn't punish me for being upset when a) I'm not bothered by the whole psoriasis thing as long as he's taking care of himself, and b) I'm only upset because I asked him to stop, knowing it would happen. Somehow, this became an argument where he was convinced I was telling him to chose between his hair (the biggest psoriasis culprit) and me.
So I'm sitting in bed, blind without glasses or contacts (which I can't wear because my eye is watering like mad and nearly closed), and he's standing int he middle of the room, arguing with me, scissors in hand, telling me he never realized how much I hated his hair. Jesus Christ.
I can't remember how many times I told him I didn't want him to cut his deadlocks off in the course of the argument (which he loves - and everyone thinks that the first and only other time he cut them was because I MADE him), and asked him if he actually thought that was what I meant. He kept saying "Of course you do - how could what you're saying mean anything else?" until I told him, "If you think that's true, then you're an idiot."
Well. He stormed off and after awhile, I made myself apologize for the "idiot" comment, but stuck to my guns that he couldn't tell me what I'd meant, and by insisting otherwise he was breaking his most fundamental marriage vow ("I promise to really hear you," <-- Our vows were deliberately specific to things we struggle with, and deliberately realistic in that they were only things we could actually achieve. None of that "I'll love you forever" bullshit.).
He cried a little. Relief, I think, to discover that I was still the person he thought I was, not some crazy lady making him choose between two things he loved. (Which is something I'm always worried about, that he or people he cares about will think I am constantly trying to geld him or clip his wings or something just by trying to get him to brush his teeth more than once a day.) The argument also touched on how I am deathly allergic to his cat, but he brought her to live with us for two months anyway, despite all the arguments and pleading on my behalf, so the crying was also related to parting with this third thing he loves: his cat.
I really have to remember that he's just always looking for the fastest, one-time solution. It doesn't matter if vacuuming once a week and washing the bed covers twice a week would solve pretty much everything - he'll never think or remember to do that. He'd rather part with something he loves dearly because it would only have to be done once. I really, really have to try harder to remember that.
At the end of it, we fell asleep, curled together, skin-to-skin (he always requests that we be naked together after an argument, to really wipe the slate clean and re-establish intimacy) and feeling very... lucky. I'm fairly sure that we don't love each other the way most couples do when they get married; with all that adoration, expectation, and promise. We love each other "very honestly" as he says, with full disclosure of flaws and gross habits. It is constantly entertaining, and there are very few nasty little surprises.
I walked to work feeling like the luckiest woman in the world, which is odd for someone who very much wants to by may never actually be healthy, or a mother.