So one day I'm sashaying around, all rock-starry, and the next day I'm at a party, hiding in the bathroom.
I would say "obviously, there's something wrong with me," but it doesn't feel like anything's wrong. It feels more like when you drop a glass on a tile floor and say "oh, dang. Someone should clean that up." Kind of pointy and splintery and scattered, but clean-up-able. It's not me that's in pieces. It's just this thing at my feet. It just happens sometimes. The crying. The hiding.
Still, spending New Year's Eve in a bathroom is not as auspicious as one might hope.
Equally inauspicious is waking up the next day to find oneself in the midst of a domestic dispute. Words were thrown. Someone may have implied that her partner, her spouse, her white knight would prefer it if she wore a ruffled apron when she cooks and cleans. Doors were slammed. House guests pretended not to hear.
"Mmmmm," they said. "This coffee's delicious."
Doors were opened. More accusations were hurled. "You make me out to be some kind of sexist monster," may have been said.
A sexist monster. This makes me inappropriately glad I have who I have. Because anyone who thinks it's monstrous to want his wife all be-aproned is okay with me. The pointy bits lose their bite. We are on the same team and there is hope for us. We are hugging in the kitchen, weeping. The houseguests look out the slider and point at things in the yard.
"See? There's a cardinal in the butterfly bush!"
And lo and behold, there is.