Monday, May 08, 2006

Some Scenes Go Better than Planned

Monsieur is so frustrating. I rehearsed the whole apology scene to myself in the mirror, ready to explain myself without trying to justify it, trying to be a grown-up. So what does he do? He apologizes as soon as he comes through the door.
I felt like I had been such a bitch.
Then he tells me that I should try to get out once in a while, have an evening with K or by myself, or maybe on the weekend just go out.
I do get out by myself occasionally to run errands, but he told me that I should get out just for time for myself. “I failed to consider this and I should have known, you see.”
Also he told me not to let things build up so much so that I blow up suddenly, since it makes him nervous to see me in “such a state” (his expression).
I asked for his forgiveness, which he gave without a pause, and he asked for mine. I gave it to him, too.
“Let’s agree on one point,” he said. “Let’s not be sorry anymore, as it was just emotion rather than a disagreement. I suggest, let’s not talk about that, as it is behind us, but talk about how to arrange matters so that you can run errands, visit friends in town, or do whatever is necessary for your sanity.”
He was being so damned reasonable; I felt like a bitch all over again.
I’m no good at apologizing. I’m defensive and self-righteous, and I have this huge streak of pride that will someday be my undoing. People who have not worked with me think I’m all sweetness and light, but I have this fierce temper when I don’t get my way. I guess I’ve been bottling it up, and I blew up at him, which he didn’t deserve, and doesn’t deserve.
I tried to keep my face completely serene for the rest of the day, but inside I was moping. I think he could tell, because when he was bringing up the boys’ clean laundry last night he asked me if I was still angry.
“Of course not,” I said, and I hugged him. “I’m not very happy with myself, though.”
“I would suggest that you find a way to forgive yourself,” he said, “since you are forgiven by me.”
I nodded.
He kissed my cheek and whispered again, “would make-up sex help matters?”
I turned beet red, sneezed, and said, “Oh! Monsieur, I don’t deserve you!” I was beaming.
Ma chère, you deserve far better than me, but I am all that I am. If you are not too exhausted after we finish bedtime, then I shall put [Littlest Boy] in his own bed and stay with him until he falls asleep.”
The next hour I somehow managed to control the butterflies in my stomach until all the boys were in bed. I showered & shaved (I wanted everything below my eyes as smooth as possible), put on something not-to-slinky but still soft and touchable, and then waited in the living room for him.
He came downstairs at 10:00, took my hand and led me to bed.

3 comments:

Cardman said...

I'm daring to yearn about the details surrounding the "make up sex". I know, I know, it's so shallow of me.

Introspectre said...

Huzzah!

As far as the issues of bitchery and self-loathing, well, you may be preaching to the choir. But I'm working on it, you're working on it, and being aware of it is the first big step.

I mean, some people are just assholes and don't even know it.
(wink)
Not you, my love.

So what is it that will make you feel better? I know that the sex itself didn't fix it...I want the deep juicy details. You know, the stuff that's edible for shrinks.

the Yearning Heart said...

Oh, Cardman, you're so predictable, such a horndog. I think it's one of your most redeeming quantities. I'll do details soon - tonight I must sleep as I was up all night last night giggling with a girl friend [winks at said girl friend knowing she's reading this].
Intro-honey, you reach into me and, pulling out my soul, you find the toughest of assignments. I'll try to have that for you, too.
So much for leaving the juicy parts to the reader's imagination.