Except when we fight.
On the bright side, I guess you could say that arguing is a form of communication. Or, as Rosanne once said, “You can’t love if you can’t fight.”And Tom Arnold had the bruises to prove it.
Sure, there were times when I though a sharp hook to the left would have kept Martin in line, but so far, we’ve been able to avoid fisticuffs. As professional wordsmiths, we have found that a well-placed barb is indeed mightier than the sword when cutting your lover down to size.
It wasn’t always that way. When we were crib crawlers we screamed when we weren’t understood, and mumbled under our breaths when they stuck a bottle in our our mouths, or poked at our diapers to shut us up. after we learned that we could walk with our legs, we found we could toss with our arms—toys, books, blocks, anything, at anyone who annoyed us.
Learning how to talk gave us a new weapon—the argument—which we sharpened on the playground, with phrases like, “Yeah, sez who?” which immediately brought forth, “Sez me, that who?”
To be topped off with the most famous closing argument of them all, “Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, NYAH!”
Granted, this last retort was, in reality, a last resort. And most of us had outgrown it by the time we were dating, thank goodness.
Fights with my beaus were heated with passion, tinged with remorse, and enacted with enough melodrama to fill a library of Danielle Steel novels.
The best part of breaking up was making up. After a cooling-off period, I’d cave into the arms of my tormentor. We’d kiss and swear we’d never hurt each other again.
Until the next time. Or the next guy.
The fact of the matter is, everyone fights, although some do it more openly than others. But I’ve met couples who insist they’ve never raised their voices to each other, that they are perfectly in sync on every decision.
Yeah, right. And Mike Tyson is a vegetarian.
Granted, the word “LIAR!” in this regard is somewhat harsh (not to say a trifle crude). But for argument's sake, (no pun intended) let’s say we believe them. Does it mean that they have a better relationship than those of us who periodically raise our voices? Does this mean that they’ve found nirvana?
Does this mean they should be running the Geneva Convention?
No. It just means that they know their neighbors are deaf, and, as Dennis Hastert could tell you if he weren’t busy right about now running an election and dodging reporters’ questions, you can’t convict without evidence.
Of course, most tiffs could be worked out immediately—if an interpreter were present. The fact that most men bellow “NO!” when asked, “You’re mad, aren’t you?” is proof that a Berlitz course on reading his silences would sell out in no time.
It’s always “the little things” that get the ball rolling: He didn’t tell you your mother called. You took too long to get ready. He left the toilet seat up—again!
“Honey, how many times does his have to happen?” I sigh as I slam the seat back down.
Defensively, he’ll answer, “As long as you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle.”
“What does one thing have to do with another?”
“A lot. You have your bad habits too.”
“That may be true, but you have more than me! It doesn’t bother me that you’re cruel,smelly, and obnoxious. That fact that you chew with your mouth open has never been a problem. But I have to draw the line somewhere. The toilet seat is it!”
“Yeah, sez who?”
“Sez me, that’s who!”
“Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, NYAH!”
“Huh? Oh, that’s so mature,” I taunt him.
“If you want mature, just look in the mirror,” he retorts.
Touché. (Hey, ya gotta admire his negotiation skills…)
I don’t see a Nobel Peace Prize anywhere in our future, but I’ll settle for a couple of make-up kisses.
Breakin' up to make up,
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