Last night, after WAY too many cocktails, a friend (out of concern) tried to tell me that there was something wrong. Word to the wise, my friends: never have deep, dark discussions after consuming gallons of booze. It never ends well for anyone.
And though I know my friend meant well, the most disturbing part of last night’s intoxicated events, was how easy it was to convince me that there was a problem where I had never seen one before. Last weekend, I missed a wedding in order to see the Supernatural cast in Dallas. There are a thousand extenuating circumstances as to why I was in Dallas instead of in Maine, but, frankly, they are none of your business. To put it lightly, this friend of mine thought that I made the wrong decision.
I spoke about it with my husband this morning. He was upset that I would let anyone, regardless of who it was, influence my feelings, both about our relationship and my decision (something he and I had discussed at length). He had every right to be upset. Here’s why (consider my lesson learned): the only people who get to decide whether my marriage is going well or not, is my husband and I. The only person, other than me, who has any say in what I do or how I do it, is my husband. I should have known better than to let an outside person’s drunky judgment influence my feelings. In nine years, my husband and I have survived dirty socks, un-swept floors, missed birthdays, car crashes, moves, layoffs, births, deaths and our own wedding. I had no right to let one conversation with someone else, make me worry.
We were at the grocery store this morning, having fun doing menial tasks, as we always do (single ladies: find someone to make you laugh, above all else). After some teasing, I needed to get past Pete in the line and said: “Excuse me babe.” The cashier smiled and looked at the both of us: “You guys are so cute.”
We are, though, we really are.