Let’s see if I can write this post without breaking any of the blog-type rules I’ve set myself – no overly personal details about me (though I think the Jarvis Cocker/cocaine quip drove a stake through that one’s heart) and no overly personal details about my friends. Hmm.
Yesterday an old friend called in tears – I mean wailing tears, so hard I thought she was laughing at first. She’d done an accidental, very minor stupid thing, and her partner got disproportionately upset, probably because of the chronically annoying position that partner’s life has been in for awhile for various non-my-friend-caused reasons.
(I love that now that I’ve written ‘partner’, people will think for sure I’m talking about a couple of lesbians. Is it a bluff? Or is it a double bluff and I’m talking about two guys? Ha ha ha ha, if only I didn’t wax my facial hair, I could twirl it.)
Anyway – maybe you’ve guessed this is another in my constant repetitions of how we shouldn’t use the people we love the most as punching bags, figuratively as well as literally. It’s the most disconcerting thing when someone you adore starts screaming, starts with the unveiled insults, starts with the bowel-icing passive aggression – one wonders what one did wrong and has an almost impossible time understanding it wasn’t so much a question of that as everything else going on.
Sure people get cranky. Sure they ride the Dragon. Sure sometimes our lovers do things that are just too stupid to laugh at or ignore and rub us the wrong way when we’re already stressed. But can we not try to measure our reactions a little bit? Can’t we be, you know, courtly and a little De Gaulle about it all? You know how polite he was to his wife, despite all the mistresses French politicians are supposed to have and the stress of governing a country populated with veal?
Yeah, so as you can see I have little enough new to add to what I’ve already gone on about this. Just that now, if any of my friends see me doing this, they’re allowed to punch me in the fucking face. Carte blanche.