Fight Club

The myth of "perfect" relationships, and the sin of arguing in public.

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A week or two ago, my friend generously invited Raffi over for an early evening play date with her daughter. Getting our kids together for a movie/supper night was the main objective, but freeing up my partner and me to go out for an early dinner ALONE was the critical added value. In the absence of a steady babysitter, Kevin and I don’t get a lot of time alone. And yet, presented with the prospect of 2.5 uninterrupted hours of 1:1 time, neither one of us really knew what to do with ourselves. So, we did what any normal couple who rarely spend time together might do: go to a restaurant and have an argument in public.

Photo by Jen Steele

Rest assured, this was not my plan. Nor his. I think we were both jazzed and caught off guard by this tiny respite—a chance for some steak frites and a beer before 7 p.m. (woo!), maybe even with a side of hand-holding, et al other sweet things completely unrelated to school, bills, and/or work woes. I genuinely felt so happy to be sitting there across from him, my PERSON for almost a decade and a half. The one I trust more than anyone. Someone I admire and also like a lot…revere, too. Which is why in those slower moments, tucked between wine and very good french fries, I started to feel….needy? Irritable? Tired? Maybe a combination of all three, throwing in some random hormonal curiosities better left for another newsletter.

Let’s face it, going out to a 5:30 p.m. dinner down the block from your kid’s playdate doesn’t chase your worries away. We all have them. The hardiest of angst and real irrational fears about God Knows What unknowable thing that could—albeit VERY unlikely—show up on our doorstep. Families of all shapes and sizes have threads + entanglements that seem to connect everything from the dishwasher making a funny new sound to your great-great grandmother’s trauma from a few centuries ago.

Life is weird and amazing and also really hard. And sometimes, you act like a total asshole to the one person you actually can act like an asshole to. Even though you shouldn’t.

Photo by Courtney Baxter

To be fair, I wasn’t acting like a world-class asshole. But I wasn’t feeling romantic. More like my body was aching for a boxing class more than an intimate dinner date. And, so, after a brisk speed round of misunderstandings topped off with a too-long gap before the food arrived, my husband and I began to argue about my perceived worry over his perceived disinterest in something that I perceived was Extremely Important TO ME.

And, really, all of it was nonsense.

But it wasn’t.