I'm not kidding. Me and the Mr. went at it. I'm talking about a knock-down argument that Ali would rather watch than his own boxing footage. I'm talking about a war of words that Mi.ke Ty.son would call "ludicrous" in that simple little voice of his. If words produced physical force, our neighborhood would look like Beirut.
I must preface this post with a factoid: I am not a fighter. I will go out of my way to compliment you or do something nice for you whether I've known you for 1 decade or 1 hour. I don't have many buttons, and they're hard to push. In fact, I represent a dying breed of peacemakers.
But let's keep this real. I'm 95% peacemaker and 5% vicious LionSharkPitBull. I'm not impenetrable. If you go looking for one of my few buttons and pressing around like a monkey on a switchboard... well... then... man-up and take what's coming.
Did I also mention that I'm fair? Consider those words FAIR WARNING.
I have no memory whatsoever of how the brawl started. I guess that's how it goes after an emotional blackout. Because I blacked out fo'real. Sure, I remember most of what happened, but I had spit-fire pumping through my veins. Once spit-fire starts flowing... I'm on a mission to shred you silly like taco cheese. (I love tacos, but I digress.) Forget the guns. I'm old school with an English teacher for a mama and a memory like a flash drive. If you flinch in pain when I spit, then I'm fighting my A-game. Bring. It.
We broke just about every rule in Dr. Ron Rice's Fighting Fair in Marriage during our 1-hour-or-so argue-fest. We didn't ask permission to initiate the "discussion." We didn't avoid sensitive personal subjects. We certainly missed the memo about "don't fight in bed at night."
Like mental ninjas, we lurked in and took deft slashes at places we knew we could draw the freshest blood. I can't even post the best quotables here because I can't think of one that doesn't count as TMI (too-much-information).
Popcorn would not have done justice for watching this 12-round fight. If you had tickets to this throw-down you woulda been tossed a quick-grab a bag of Funyuns or some cold chicken from the fridge. As contenders, we brought the heat. Muhammad Ali rolled over in his sound sleep.
We even threw in some childish moments to keep the party interesting and mix things up a bit.
AND???? My daddy will killllll youuuuuuu. I'm his bay-bee.
So you want me dead???
You've never been passionately in love if you've never fought with passion. Only a fool believes that a fight-less relationship is proof of happiness and compatibility. Too many times, especially in your youth, it's proof that nobody cares enough to engage the other.
Looking back, I didn't throw fire like that even when my ex-husband walked out to be with his girlfriend. What a dangerous sign that we'd divorced emotionally long before - or worse, possibly never even married - long before he started turning-in keys and walking out the door. As I responded to Nikki describing the apathy surrounding her own marital breakup:
But I'm glad I didn't put up a championship fight. Because I wasn't mourning over him. I mourned the death of a fantasy about marriage and not about our marriage. I mourned the thought of raising two boys alone and what that would do to me financially. I mourned over losing the image of a woman who could keep a husband and nurture a family. I even mourned about all the Mr. Fixit household jobs that would go undone.
And beneath all that mourning for the wrong stuff, I was happy to be free. I clearly wasn't engaged enough with him emotionally as a friend, wife, or lover to simply miss his presence. The greater tragedy would have been if we stayed together.
The thin line between love and hate isn't an urban legend. That ish is real. Like a well-placed landmine, you don't understand the power until you prance through the forest of love, trip the line, and detonate the bomb.
Fighting each other. Then crying together. That's how the night ended.
The landmine exploded. We argued over who tripped the line. We fought about the damage. We tied our bandanas, painted our faces and sniped each other from the bushes.
Now blackouts have side effects, so I'm not sure when this next thing happened... But somebody got the medicine kit and started dressing the other's wounds. Suddenly, we're in a mountain of gauze, ointment and tears.
Like old kung fu warriors in a badly dubbed TV spot, we acknowledged how the other was a truly formidable opponent. Not because of superior skills, but because only the best of friends and deepest of partners can fight like animals, hit where it hurts, and spar without spilling an ounce of love from the tank.
We're still talking about that day. He speaks with a serious resolve about the necessary purpose for the blowout. (I love a man who understands that good and bad both teach purpose, but I digress again). We would jump in front of a train for each other. We fight with passion and not hate - which is obvious based on how we recover. And most of all, running through the lilies isn't the only way - or necessarily the best way - to learn about the person to whom you gave your life.
Now that the spit-fire has ebbed and I'm back to my 95% peacemaker self, I can still say without a doubt that I'm one of the luckiest (read "most blessed") chicks on the planet.