June 1993 - Sincerely Sire Newsletter
Rosemarie (Roe) has thrown many things at me during the course of our
nearly twenty-year argument, I mean marriage - - - a large picture, a
record, a telephone, glasses full of various liquids, etc. None of these
items were meant to cause great bodily harm except the record. It was
meant to take my head off.
I, on the other hand, have never thrown anything at Roe, that is, until
last night. As a matter of fact, when we first got married back in '74,
I prided myself on never showing my anger. I perceived myself as the
strong silent type. No matter what she said or did, I would not provoke.
She'd lift a three-by-four foot picture off the wall and throw it at me,
just barely missing my head, and I'd calmly pick it up and replace it.
She'd throw a glass of orange juice in my face, and I'd get her another
glass. It would drive her crazy.
But over the years Dr. Roe's been working on my "problem." She's been
"helping me" to show my anger. She's found my hot buttons and pushed
them as only she can. Last night she helped me some more. You might
even call it a break through.
It was almost ten o'clock in the evening and I had just sat down on the
couch to watch TV and eat a rather large Mexican dinner, consisting of
two tacos, a cheese enchilada, rice, beans, chips and lots of hot sauce.
(I had ordered out from a local restaurant.) It had been a long day, and
I was really looking forward to this feast. It was my reward for a good
day's work. A job well done.
Roe, for reasons still unknown to me, decided this would be an ideal time
for some more counseling. She started the session by flashing looks of
disgust in my direction. Disgust that I could eat so much, so late,
especially in light of the fact that it was common knowledge that I
needed to lose at least fifteen pounds. I tried to ignore her, but she
was looking at me as though I were a pig at the trough. In spite of the
sudden rush of adrenaline this caused, I tried my very best to remain
calm. I was not going to let her ruin my beautiful meal, my reward. But
just as I was about to put the first bite of enchilada into my impatient
and profusely salivating mouth, she fired the next salvo. She said,
dripping with sarcasm and contempt, "Are you sure you can eat all that?"
Still determined to eat and enjoy my dinner, and in spite of the surfeit
of adrenaline now pervasive throughout my body, I placed the first morsel
of enchilada into my mouth. It was cold, so I got up and walked over to
the microwave oven to heat up the food in the white Styrofoam container.
Roe was sneering next to me getting something out of the refrigerator.
It was at this moment that my intense appetite for food transformed
abruptly into a fierce appetite for revenge. I slammed the refrigerator
door and screamed at her to get out of my face.
I had taken the doctor off guard, but she regrouped quickly, slammed a
cabinet door and yelled at me that she would be glad to get out of my
face, at which point I lunged at her, bared my teeth, and grunted loudly.
She just looked at me as if to say, "Ok, so now you sound like a pig
too." She then walked calmly across the kitchen and into the next room.
She had her back to me when I decided to do it. I pulled the big Mexican
dinner out of the microwave, took careful aim, and pitched a perfect
strike clear across the kitchen and into the family room. The tacos,
enchilada, rice, beans and sauce exploded on the wall just inches away
from her smug little face. Unphased, she turned around and smiled at me
warmly. After nearly two decades of therapy, I had been cured.
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