The other day my husband and I had, what some people might consider, an argument. I considered it a “knock-down, drag-out, come-to-Jesus” meeting of two rotten souls who were ready to do battle with each other.
He sat in a chair on one side of my desk, looking well rested in his starched khaki shirt and green slacks with his ribbons neatly stacked on his shoulder, fresh from a nap and a hot shower.
I sat in a chair on the other side of my desk, looking worn and frazzled in my flannel pants and holey tee-shirt, with my hair haphazardly piled on my head, chugging through another long work day.
The only things that stood between us were my computer, three empty coffee mugs, and a whole lot of hurt feelings.
We were entering day 5 (or was it 6?) of a stalemate. We sat there, staring at each other. The air was thick with the previously uttered angry words; contempt for each other just floating around my office like dust.
What were we fighting about, you ask?
A week earlier, while studying for a play, I had the audacity to ask him to help me. He basically told me to go haze myself. An hour later, he asked me to help him study a flight manual, and I- repeating his words verbatim- told him to go haze himself.
That launched us into a 5 (or was it 6?) day battle of epic proportions. It all centered on how valuable his time as an aviation student truly is.
At that point I shouted at him that pilots are a dime-a-dozen. I also said that at the end of the day, when the Marine Corps was done with him, all he had left were his wife and kids.
His response was to shout back at me that maybe the Marine Corps wouldn’t always need him, but at this precise moment, we needed the Marine Corps.
He followed that up with how his time was more important. What he needed from me was more important than what I needed from him. Of course I’m paraphrasing here in order to keep it ‘PG’, but you get the point.
I stared at him, thinking about his words.