Marital Madness

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

This is what we look like when we aren't bickering. 

This morning was our last morning in St. Louis.  We got up early to see my friend off to work and give her a proper goodbye.  Due to an armed-robbery-turned-car-chase that passed by the house at about three in the morning, we were a little tired.  We are country bumpkins these days and aren't used to the sound of traffic at night, let alone fifteen police cars with sirens blaring.

I should start out by saying that I've been doing a lot of soul searching this past week.  St. Louis has a lot to offer in terms of grad school options and social support.  Mario even brought up the prospect of moving back several times in one day; something I never thought I'd hear come out of his mouth. He hates the weather, but like me, loves the people.

Now that my undergrad studies are coming to an end soon, I've been agonizing about what to do.  Wait to get into a physician assistant program?  Go to med school?  Get a Master's degree?  Come up with a Plan B career choice?  I'm overwhelmed just thinking about it.  Mario and I were discussing it for the umpteenth time this morning when he suddenly asked, "Is there something else you'd like to do?  I mean, can you handle the politics and whiny patients and . . ."   

What?!  Three and a half years into my education and you're asking me if I should really be pursuing my life's dream?  I answered in the best way I knew how without getting too defensive; assuring him that I knew exactly what I wanted to be doing.  Then we got busy packing up the car and our grumpy kid.  I may have gotten distracted, but I definitely didn't let it go.

I didn't mean to let it fester all day, and didn't consciously, but I lost my shiz in a Starbucks parking lot in nowhere Ohio.  We were all tired, sad to say goodbye to our friends, and stressed about what waited for us at home now that we are returning to the 'real world.'  So we had it out.  Again. And again. Then we stopped talking to each other.

I felt like doing this . . .

Upon arriving at our hotel for the night, Mario tried to apologize.  I didn't want to rehash it.  So we went another round. Then we went to dinner and looked at everything in the restaurant but each other.  The frost began to thaw about halfway through the main course; due in large part to our mutual dislike of our snooty waiter.

. . . but did this instead.

I'm still mad at him.  But not because he did anything wrong, per se.  His honest attempt to talk to me about my career goals hit below the belt and my feelings were hurt.  I want him to be honest with me. I think.  It kind of stings, though.

I spent a good part of the car ride wondering what I have done to make him question my ability to deal with adversity and annoyance.  I've never been fired from a job.  I've never been unable to deal with social situations.  I'm more than able to remove myself from drama.  I can keep my opinions to myself and generally maintain an open mind.  Where along the road did I infuse this doubt?  And even worse, where do I go from here, knowing that my husband questions my choice in careers?

In the end, I'll get over it.  I'm also sure that it was a miscommunication more than anything. But that question will probably continue to replay in the back of my mind. Mario has always been my staunchest supporter . . . and right now it feels a little less so.

Misunderstandings are common in a marriage.  Especially when you're road-weary.  Still, how do you undo the hurt you cause someone, no matter how innocent the intention?  And how does the other person manage to brush it off and chalk it up to tiredness instead of letting it eat at their psyche? Is it just me, or does this post have more questions than answers?

My tired brain needs to shelf this . . . for now.  But let's leave this on a lighter note, shall we?  Here's a list of careers I have already abandoned because I came to the realization that they weren't a good fit for me.  Being a P.A. is not on it.

Record exec by day . . . rock star by night.  Having a secret identity sounds hard.
Shamu's trainer.  Turns out he finds them tasty.  More specifically, I wanted to be a marine biologist, but I have a tendency to projectile vomit on choppy boat rides.
I'm just not that dedicated to David Hasselhoff, drama, and hair tossing.  Or bikini waxes.

I did learn something today:  Do not discuss your life plans on little sleep.  Or while attempting to deal with a crotchety kid.  Tomorrow is a new day . . .

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