Maybe It Does Bother Me

Dearest Rachel –

Another day, another earworm, another memory of something done or said. This time, it’s a bit more recent (as opposed to something during your lifetime), and it’s a bit of a regret, to be honest. But then, it was ‘being honest’ that got me here.

Let’s start with the earworm, and see if you can figure things out from there. I’m betting against it, but it’s something to keep in mind as I tell you about last Saturday, and why my assertion that nothing bothers me anymore blew up in my face, and how the apology I extended for that seems woefully insufficient.

As much as we liked this song (and the Weird Al parody that I think we saw first; I may put it at the end of this letter, just for a palate cleanser), it was never our experience, and that’s part of where this story comes from. Quick summary; in the course of twelve or thirteen hours, I went from insisting that I don’t get angry or offended about things (and how that’s not necessarily a good thing, if you consider why) to getting angry and offended about a very specific situation (not that it was any improvement).

Now, I don’t write as much to you about what happens in the evenings as I used to. That’s probably because I’ve gotten into the habit of writing to you first thing in the morning – at least, for the most part. While you might think that the events of the previous evening would still be fresh in my mind, the night of sleep often works like an Etch-a-Sketch on my thought processes, erasing them fairly thoroughly so I can face the day with a clear head. Normally, this is a good thing – imagine going through life constantly being burdened with the memories of everything you did or said in the past, and everything done or said to you in turn – but it does explain my fears about forgetting so much about you and me. Thank heaven for Ellen, and the things she remembers – although that’s a story for another time. No, I mean that literally; I just got a letter from her that I really ought to forward to you (as soon as I get her permission).

Anyway, Saturday.

For the past month and a half, the men’s morning study has been going over a book that suggests that, in a world where everyone gets offended at the least provocation, we as Christians ought to simply decide… not to. The point is that, like the parable of the ungrateful servant, we have been forgiven of so much that we have no right to hold anything against anyone else, whether they cut us off in traffic or call us names or essentially ruin our mortal lives. All of that is trivial in comparison to what we have been given without our even asking for it.

It’s a perspective that certainly makes sense to me. If anyone should know that life’s too short to get worked up about this or that little thing (and really, everything is little, in the final analysis), it’s someone like me. It makes me glad that we (almost) never had those kind of moments together, so I don’t have any regrets about what I should (or should not) have said to you before you had to go.

But there’s more to my lack of concern about the ‘little things’ of life than just understanding that they are little, and it’s not something to aspire to or be proud of. I’ve come to the conclusion that, on this topic, at least, Mohinder was right about me. During one of his many harangues of me, he accused me of being superficial, of not having a passion for anything – and, as much as it galls me to acknowledge it, he was right. The reason I don’t get angry about anything is that I don’t care about anything (or anyone) enough to bother getting upset about it, or them. And I don’t know if that’s an improvement over anger, or if it’s orders of magnitude worse.

But then, that same evening…

I was in the booth this past weekend, while Daniel and Logan were going to the cinema to watch some anime release that was playing in the theaters, apparently. Since they would be out, I let Daniel know that he would be on his own for dinner, which was fine by him. I’d intended for him to take care of himself because I’d already had leftovers that I knew he wouldn’t touch (being seafood and all), but when the rest of the crew made plans to go out after the service, I realized I could do that just as well; the leftovers could wait another day.

So, we were off to a pizza place a little north and east of where I usually find myself, to a place I know we never went to back in the day. It’s the sort of place and time I would never have bothered with on my own when we were together, as I would never have considered going out without you, but here we are. Ironically, everyone else from production was there with their wives – although a few younger guys were also there by themselves, as well as a couple who were friends of one or another of my colleagues.

It was this couple that I was positioned across from, and who slowly began making their way under my skin. They seemed nice enough, to be sure, especially as they talked glowingly of their kids and the effort they put into coaching their various extracurricular sporting activities. But as they conversed, there were these little jabs they were making at each other; stuff like how one or the other was going to pay for having said this or that thing when they got home, Cutting remarks, uttered in this quasi-humorous tone, that the dispassionate observer would have difficulty ascertaining if what was being said was just a joke, or merely wrapped in jocularity to render it palatable for public consumption. You might recall how we compared ourselves to “I’m With Stupid (times Two)”? Well, these two struck me as the “Jolly Jugular Jabbers” from that same cartoon.

I think I’ve mentioned this to you before; when I hear of a couple divorcing, or see them fighting each other, it bothers me. I realize I don’t know the circumstances behind whatever it is I’m seeing, but I do know these two people thought they loved each other once, enough to say “I do” to committing their lives to each other. The fact that these two people are now at each other’s throats – even if in jest, because part of the magic of humor is that it often presents the truth in an amusing little package – makes me want to grab them by their collars and slap them silly. “Do you not understand what it is you have?! I would do anything (within reason) to have that relationship back! You two have that, and what are you doing with it?! Fighting? Insulting each other? What’s wrong with you two?!”

It seems that I’m not as dispassionate as I thought I was.

Considering this means I care about this sort of thing, I think that’s a good sign. On the other hand, I made it clear that I didn’t appreciate their sense of humor, and I can’t say that I was diplomatic about it. Oh, I didn’t say everything I just wrote down, but I said enough to make my position clear. For their part, they pointed out that they had been married since they were in their late teens (and considering they were both seemingly older than myself, they have us beat in terms of time together quite handily), and happily so; this sort of banter has been a part of their relationship almost since day one. In essence, it works for them, and I probably had no right to go off on them like that, because I was definitely misinterpreting their mutual jibes at each other.

Chastened, I apologized for my outburst, and they seemed to be understanding about it; it’s not like my situation isn’t common knowledge, after all, so such a perspective might be understandable. And I’m still embarrassed about it, even though I’m still not convinced that this sort of dialogue between a husband and wife is truly appropriate. But I shouldn’t have gotten so upset about it. They have their life, and apart from that evening, it’s never touched mine; why should I care about how they conduct themselves? Why was I unable to fall back on the apathy that I thought all but defined me at this point?

And yet, here I was. Upset, and even more so for being upset.

Maybe some things really do bother me, after all.

Anyway, I think I need that palate cleanser, if you don’t mind. Enjoy, if you remember.

Keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. It seems I’m going to need it, given my temper.