The Clinch

“A clinch is a last resort defensive technique. It’s when one boxer holds onto the other to avoid being hit or muffle an opponent’s attack.”

Last week, Nate decided he loves me.

Just like that.  Well, I guess he had some incentive.  It might even be valid.

To make a long story short, if all goes according to plan, I’m going to be in a movie with Justin Timberlake.

This sounds much more interesting than it is.  My acting coach called me at the last minute to do some work as an extra for a movie called The Social Network.  It was filming in Boston, I worked one night, I made $150, and, no, I did not meet Justin Timberlake…although Jesse Eisenberg did run by me a couple dozen times.

Despite how very not a big deal this is, it sent Nate into a two-day long episode.  He made himself sick over it.  I didn’t understand why.  I assured him that the former front man for N’Sync was not there and, as such, would be unable to pop and lock his way into my heart.  However, that wasn’t his problem.  As he tells it, once he was able to articulate his position, the fact that I was off, having any kind of new experience without him, killed him.

Somehow, without even trying, I had tapped some emotional font and the amount of sap that sprang forth after that was enough to give me a stomach ache.  “I just love doing things with you,” he said.  “I mean, we can go out and try something new or just stay in and watch TV, and it’s all fun, because I’m with you.  You’re my best friend, and the thought of you doing something new and exciting without me kills me.  I barely deserved you before and now, I really don’t.  I just don’t want to lose you because I was too stupid and stubborn to admit how I feel.”

Suddenly, I was relieved and uncomfortable again.  It was like rubbing alcohol on a fresh wound.

It’s nice to be loved by someone you care about.

It’s nice to have someone think that you’re awesome and to want to be around you as much as you want to be around them.  It’s nice to belong to someone.

But I was still squeamish.  Suddenly, it was time for another round.  I didn’t want to discourage him, because he can be so distant and unemotional at times.  Part of me was slightly conscious of some emotional need of my own being filled.  Part of me was aware of the fact that if I didn’t react positively, he might never open up to another person again.  Part of me doubted the veracity of his feelings.

And part of me wanted to run.  He started to talk about the future.  He was using words like “long-term” and “rings.”  I started to whisper calming mantras to myself.  I told myself that I would go up for the weekend, we would see each other, we would both get a reality check, and some of this manic attack would subside.

Luckily, I was right.  We had a really nice time this weekend.  He settled down, but we got along really well.  It was like re-living the honeymoon phase of our relationship.  We even started to make tentative plans.  We had always talked about the possibility of ending up in Pittsburgh.  Somehow, in the last week, we’ve come up with an actual timeline.

And, even though when Nate says “marriage” I start to hyperventilate and break out into hives, the thought of day-to-day living with him in “the Burgh” is actually very pleasant.  And that’s the stuff a marriage is really made of, right?  It’s the everyday that matters.

Still, it can’t always be like last weekend. Sure, now we’re in love, but is saying it supposed to make my tongue feel like sandpaper?  Then, there’s the simple, practical question, is it real, and will it last?  We didn’t fight all weekend, but all of our problems are still there.  Someday soon, we’re going to disagree again.  One day, we’re going to see something on TV or read something in the paper that makes one of us angry.  One day, a Republican is going to be president, again.  One day, Nate’s dad is going to die.

One day, I’m going to have to make a choice.  Unless, maybe relationships are just like anything else in life, not one, ultimate decision, but a series of decisions that you continue to make every single day.

But if that’s the case, how sure can anyone ever really be?

I can’t even figure out if this post is cynical or optimistic.

Having a Chin

“Having a chin, whiskers or granite like jaw means having the ability to absorb punches when you get hit with a big shot and stay standing, to remain on your feet despite seeing black flashing lights, blurred, double or triple vision and feeling a buzz that goes all the way to your toes. Some say you are either born with a good chin or not. Other says it’s a mental toughness that when your brain tells you to go down to the canvas you will yourself to stay on your feet.”

I had to figure out where to go from here. The mature thing to do would be to sit down and talk about it rationally; weigh the pros and cons, review the tape, re-strategize, and make an informed decision…

…so I did what anyone in my position would have done; I ignored it.

I took the hit, and kept on moving. The funny thing is that it seemed to work for a while. Nate and I went back to our everyday routine. His father started to respond to chemo, and our fights became less and less dramatic.

He even gave some ground. It was around this time that he claimed to be more open-minded because he landed closer to the middle of the political spectrum. He argued that one party could not be right all the time and, because he picks and chooses from both, he has a better chance of finding some kind of ultimate truth.

I pointed out several reasons that this assertion is flawed. First, this is the real world and one side most certainly could be right more often than the other, and there are factions within each party that disagree on many issues. Second, if what he assumed was true, and each side is correct exactly fifty percent of the time, then, mathematically speaking, he is just as likely to have chosen incorrectly as correctly on every single issue. He could very well be 100% wrong, rather than 100% right.

Lo and behold, I got through to him. We may not have come to any new agreements on the issues, but he finally agreed that neither of us was starting from the intellectual high-ground.

I was ecstatic that we had made a breakthrough. On the outside, when it came to the everyday conversations, our rhythm was greatly improving.

But the entire time, I was acutely aware that I was bleeding internally.

Do I love him? Am I pulling away because I know we aren’t right for each other? By staying with him, am I settling? If I’m even asking, doesn’t that mean something is wrong? If I ended things, would I be giving up on something great to chase some childish fantasy of love? Am I scared of commitment or am I scared of being alone?

Do I secretly know the answer, but refuse to admit it to myself?

Nate and I may have said “no mas,” but I was still beating myself punch-drunk.

It didn’t seem fair to ask him if he loved me when I didn’t know how I felt, but I had to know what I was dealing with.

So I waited for the opportunity to bring it up as subtley as possible.  A couple weeks ago, when I was home for the weekend, we were at my brother’s house watching TV.  Nate got into a snit over something my brother did, and he stormed out.  Later, when everyone had gone home, he asked if I wanted to go get coffee, and I agreed.  On the way to Greenville’s one and only 24 hr diner, I told him that the mini-fits had to stop. 

He didn’t think his actions had been uncalled for and the result of this disagreement was a mature, adult conversation…or would have been if my primary objective were not covert and irrelevant to what we were discussing. 

About ten minutes after we slid into the same side of our usual booth, I kissed him on the cheek and said as nonchalantly as possible, “I love you, Nate, but this is a problem.”

“I’m glad you do,” he said.  Then, he kept talking about coffee and how inconsiderate my brother was.  It had been months since the last L-word debacle, but if he noticed what I had just done, he didn’t acknowledge it. 

I was hurt and relieved.    

If he didn’t love me, I thought, then whether or not I love him doesn’t matter.  Finally, I could let it rest, sit back, and wait for it to end. 

It’s probably for the best, anyway.    

 

The Rabbit Punch

“A rabbit punch is punch to the back of the head or neck. It is illegal in boxing since it can cause cervical vertebrae damage and subsequent spinal cord injury resulting in paralysis or death. Rabbit punch got its name from a technique hunters use to kill rabbits with a quick, sharp blow to the back of their heads with a blunt object”

Nate and I had only been dating a couple weeks before I could tell he wanted to say he loved me.  He almost let it slip out a couple of times.  Once, while watching TV, he said he “lo-really liked hanging out with” me.

He danced around it for almost a year.

And that was fine with me. 

This was my first serious relationship.  I don’t like commitment and feelings make me uncomfortable.  I didn’t know if I loved him back, and I didn’t want to say it if I didn’t mean it.  Even after I decided it was okay to say, I let him do it first.  He warned me via text that he was gearing up to say it. 

But he waited until I came home to Pennsylvania for a weekend, so he could tell me to my face. 

I told him I loved him, too.  And that should have been the end of it.  After the initial exchange, everything is supposed to be fine and dandy and you’re supposed to go skipping off through a meadow, hand-in-hand. 

But we didn’t keep saying it.  One of us let it drop every once in a while, but we used the L-word sparingly. 

Then, Christmas came, the relationship got hard, and we quit saying it all together. 

And one night, we had a particularly vicious, but by then all-too-familiar, break-up fight.  Just like always, things had started off innocently enough.  We spent the evening at a bar with our friends, without so much as a negative word toward each other.  Then, on the way home, just like always, things got ugly, fast.  To this day, I can’t tell you how he did it.  One minute we were laughing and the next, he was angry. 

But something had changed. 

I don’t know if it was him or me, but things were worse, somehow.  I couldn’t breathe.  I needed out.  I turned down my street, instead of following him up his and yelled back not to follow me. 

He chased me down and apologized, but it took him a long time to get me calm again.  I was shaking. 

Then, he talked.  In case you couldn’t tell, Nate isn’t very good with feelings either.  He opened up about his father and his frustration with life.  He told me things I know he would never tell anyone else. 

When he was done, we went to bed. 

I kissed him goodnight, with the hope that we understood each other a little bit better. 

He asked me if I loved him.

I said “yes.”

He asked me if I was sure. 

I hesitated, but I said “yes.”

“I’m not,” he said. 

Looking back, I should have been angry. 

But I didn’t blame him.

“Neither am I,” I said.

The Haymaker

“A haymaker is a wild swinging punch thrown with all of the person’s weight behind it in an attempt to knock out the other person. You usually see haymakers in street fighting or in the movies. Haymakers are also used in boxing as a last resort. They deliver enough force to break a man’s jaw. The term first appeared in 1912, perhaps from the 1880 ‘hit the hay” or ‘go to sleep’.”

Nate and I broke up three times in February.

I blame his quick temper, glass jaw and incredible talent for being irrationally offended by insignificant things. 

I like to consider myself a very reasonable person.  No one can be wrong all the time…at least, that’s what I used to think.  Eighteen months ago, Nate set out on an expedition to prove me wrong, and he has stalwartly stayed the course.   And frankly, after a while, being magnanimous wears on you. 

Sometimes, I want to be the petty one. 

Sometimes, I read some political op-ed piece that get me so worked up that I want to call him and tell him off just because I know what he would think about them…but I don’t.  Because we don’t need another reason to argue.

Sometimes, arguing with Nate is like trying to punch down a brick wall with my bare hands.  He doesn’t listen.  He’s not logical.  We aren’t even operating on the same plane.  Sometimes I think Nate is so out of touch with planet Earth he could shake hands with Captain Kirk.   

Then, sometimes, he gives just a little.  Sometimes, I see the smallest crack, the tiniest glimmer of hope in him.  Like the time Bush was in office and we were arguing about the price of gas.  He told me he had heard that oil companies made record amounts of money the previous year.  I explained to him that, while that was technically true, those same oil companies also spent record amounts of money to buy the oil in the first place, and their profit margins were actually just about, if not below, average.  Later, I heard him in the kitchen, repeating it to his father.  The shocked relief I felt at having finally been heard…even understood, was short-lived, but substantial and refreshing. 

But these times felt few and far between. 

And when his father started chemo again, they were almost non-existent.  Nate became more and more upset, and I held back less and less.  We were at each other’s throats and, finally, he told me he was “done.”

 I told him “fine.”

 “You don’t have anything to say?” he asked.

“I can give a counter-argument to a myriad of different statements, Nate, but ‘We are no longer dating’ isn’t one of them.  It doesn’t take two people to break up.”

He said he didn’t want to break up.  I said his previous statement would indicate otherwise. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” he said.

I told him to join the club. 

Sometimes it seems blatantly obvious that Nate and I are just wrong for each other.  Other times, I feel like he understands me in a way no one else ever has.  I can’t imagine doing this for the rest of my life, but the thought of Nate, somewhere in the world, without me, makes my gut churn. 

He’s one of my best friends. 

Sometimes I weave back and forth so much that it makes me dizzy.  My doubts play over and over again in my mind like the rap music they use to torture prisoners of war. 

 And I never told him.  I should have set him straight for trying to mindfuck me the first time he said the relationship was over.  Then, it probably wouldn’t have become a habit.

The Mandatory Eight Count

“A mandatory eight count is an 8 second count that a fallen boxer must take when he gets back on his feet. It allows the referee time to decide whether the boxer can continue the fight.”

Right around Christmas of last year, Nate’s dad took a turn for the worse. 

 Our relationship followed suit. 

When he told me his father would probably need a third surgery, he was looking for a fight.  I had just arrived home for Christmas break, feeling on top of the world.  When I talked to him as I was leaving Virginia, he was excited to see me.  Five hours later, when I called to tell him I was pulling into the driveway, things had changed. 

 He wasn’t direct, but he was distant.  By then, I knew his footwork and could tell something was seriously wrong.

 I was getting tired of being the bad guy.  I didn’t know if I could do it anymore. 

 I told him to stay home and cool off, but he came over anyway, and he walked in swinging. 

 I couldn’t agree with him.  He was still wrong.

 I couldn’t comfort him.  He wouldn’t accept it.

 I couldn’t defend myself.  He was in pain.

 So I took it. 

 I took my stance, set my jaw, and led with my chin.  I didn’t move.  I didn’t speak.  I let him yell at me in my parents’ kitchen, until, after a while he paused and asked if I was going to say anything. 

 And that’s when I surprised both of us.  I cried. 

 I hate crying in front of people.  Crying is something you do quietly when you’re alone in your bedroom or a bathroom stall…perhaps into a pillow. 

 But I cried then, in front of Nate, for the first time.  And suddenly it was over.  It was like somebody had flipped a switch.  He started to comfort me. 

 “Hey,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.  My dad’s on my mom’s insurance.  He’s going to start chemo again.   He’ll be okay.”

 We both felt better.  For a while, I had been seriously questioning our relationship.  That night, I thought maybe all of our differences were petty and we could work past them.  I thought maybe we were just two strong-willed people who genuinely care about each other and, at the end of the day, are truly good for each other. 

 Unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way for long.

The Corner Men

“At the junction of the ropes where a boxer rests between rounds his second, the corner man advises him, gives him water, tries to reduce swelling and stop bleeding.”

I have my own corner men.  After Nate and I argue, I usually talk to my dad, who is the smartest person I know, or my cousin Missy, whose default opinion is that Nate’s balls should be cut off.

 Nate has two friends that he runs to whenever we’re fighting over politics.  Al and Zipay.  They’re both liberals, both well educated, and both people I’ve known and respected for a long time. 

 In fact, Zipay teaches Government at the high school in my hometown and, at one point or another, the rest of us have all been students in his class.  He and Nate became very close They’re in a folk band together.  Nice guy, smart, and totally wrong about a great deal of things.

 Nate gets most of his political “facts” from them.  He doesn’t watch or read the news much.  Nor does he read many books or articles by political pundits.  Instead, he tends to take my arguments back to Al and Zipay, and see what they have to say about them.  This is frustrating for a number of reasons. 

 One: He can’t trust a fact coming from me until it’s ratified by Al, but whatever holy proclamation thunders down from Mt. Zipay is taken as law. 

 Two: Quite often, he gets my arguments wrong.  For example, once he told them that I said that Sadaam Hussein was involved in the orchestration of 9/11.  I never said anything so patently stupid, and this not only makes me sound like an idiot to his friends, but proves that he’s not really listening, so all of the gut-wrenching effort I put into fighting with him is for naught.

 Three: It’s demeaning to the argument.  It often makes me wonder why I waste my time fighting with someone who doesn’t care to look into things for himself.

 I had tried to avoid fighting with Nate in front of his friends.  Dragging anyone into a fight is rude, and Al is a pacifist and any kind of acrimony makes him very uncomfortable, but oftentimes, when I back up my argument with a fact or statistic that surprises Nate, he’ll say something along the lines of, “Really? I don’t know anything about that.  Tell that to Al and see what he says about it,” or “Alright, try and convince Zipay.”

 The fact that he can argue with me so vehemently, and then divest himself so quickly of responsibility is infuriating. 

So I took him up on his challenge. 

For example, Al, a history major, idolized Ted Kennedy, but had never even heard of Mary Jo Kopechne, the girl Kennedy killed in an incident that probably cost the senator the American presidency.  I showed him newspaper articles that detailed the story.  Zipay, a teacher of government, denied that Barack Obama was ever at a party at Bill Ayers house.  I showed him the CNN clip that reported otherwise.

In the time since, Nate has either forgotten these instances, or diminished them.

The Flash Knockdown

“A flash knockdown occurs when a boxer is knocked down but gets back on his feet before the referee begins the count. It’s also known as a no-count.”

The first time Nate and I broke up, it was a mature and responsible decision.  At least, that’s what I told myself. 

I had been planning to leave for grad school in Virginia for the entirety of our relationship.  He was considering moving to Oklahoma with his best friend, Stidum, when Stidum returned from deployment. 

I refused to even try to make it work long-distance.  That kind of thing doesn’t work for normal people, and I’ve always had trouble with commitment.  In fact, there’s a good chance our relationship wouldn’t have lasted as long as it had if it hadn’t come with an expiration date.

The summer came and went quickly and in August, we began the countdown.  The night before I left I went to his house and watched TV.  He never tried to change my mind.  He was just sad.  When it was time to go, I kissed him goodbye. 

“Well,” he said wryly, “It’s been fun.”

I honestly thought it was over, and I was in the dumps about it…for about a week. 

It turns out that Nate had quickly become one of my best friends, and it was just strange not to talk to him every day…so I did.  By the time I went back home to visit, he said, “So, we’re pretty much still together, right?” 

The break up just hadn’t stuck. 

None of our break ups have, so far. 

The second time we broke up, it was without my knowledge. 

I had been in Virginia for about 3 months and, in addition to our usual political acrimony, the distance was grating on us.  We talked every day, but we were both on edge, and it’s irrational to yell “I resent you for being so far away!” so we just took jabs at each other.  One night, it inevitably culminated in an epic, seven-hour-long battle royal via AIM.   The fight could have gone on longer, but I stole a move from his playbook and stormed off. 

Well, the internet equivalent of storming off.  I signed off with a poignant flourish.  Then, I put the computer away and went to bed.  When I awoke the next day, I went straight to the computer and pulled up my AIM account to see what kind of a reaction I had gotten out of him. 

I was expecting a brief retort that could be boiled down to “Well, fuck you, too.”  What I found was around a dozen paragraphs, written at around 15 minute increments.  The first couple reiterated the major points of his argument.  Then, came a frustrated questioning of our relationship, followed by a livid proclamation that we were no longer dating.  Finally, there was a heartfelt apology, with a promise to call me the next day.

That is when I started to consider the idea that my boyfriend might be bipolar.

Pulling Punches

“A boxer is said to pull his or her punches when he or she uses less force than capable of, holds back from using all ones strength.”

I was in a totally foreign situation.

It was February of 2008, and Nate and I had been dating for two months.  I liked him.  He was smart and goofy.  He liked long walks, he was affectionate, without being gross about it, and he always DVRed Judge Judy for me, while I was at work.

I liked him a lot.

This, in and of itself, was strange.  At 23, the longest I had ever been in a relationship was 6 weeks.  I bore easily.

Nate was never boring, but he was infinitely frustrating.  He liked to talk politics, but rarely with any substance, and never to contention.  It was merely a derisive joke here, and a snide comment there.  Normally, this kind of behavior would have unleashed, in me, a torrent of impassioned rhetoric, but this was a special case, and I didn’t know how to respond.  So I just kept my mouth shut.

I’m not proud of, but our first argument had set me off kilter.  I have always been heavily involved in politics, and I was used to debating in a variety of forums, but never this.  On the one hand, I felt that Nate was willfully and disasterously misinformed, and his first tantrum was not only disrespectful to the art of karaoke, but appalling and unnacceptable in any relationship.  If any one of my friends had told me that her significant other acted the way my boyfriend had, I would have advised them to get rid of him, immediately.

On the other hand, I was always acutely aware of the fact that Nate was going through something that I couldn’t understand.

For one thing, he was unemployed.  He had earned his Master’s degree, and was interning at Young & Rubicam, when he decided to leave Madison Avenue to be closer to his family.  Since then, he has had an absurdly difficult time finding a job.

Then, there was his dying father.  Joe Vanderella, one of the nicest men you could ever meet, spent the last six years undergoing extensive surgeries and chemotherapy to remove and treat the tumors in his brain.  Nate and I are both close to our fathers, and if mine were in Joe’s place, I would be devestated.

I try to remember that.

But, given the circumstances, it’s difficult to convince Nate that our arguments aren’t personal.

And so it went.

On the rare occasion that I did take up the gauntlet he threw down, I did so calmly.  That only pissed him off more.

Finally, I reached the end of my rope.  One day, I made a stupid joke about the drive-up tube station at the bank.  It was about as politically motivated as it was funny, but with slight of hand that would have put David Blaine to shame, he turned what I said into a challenge to his views on middle class taxes.  I could feel the fight bubbling under the surface, and I snapped.

He was stunned.

After a few minutes, he collected himself, and approached me with a weak smile.  “Hey,” he said, “I thought I was supposed to be the one who blew his top all the time. ”  He had a valid point.  It had been mutually agreed upon by both parties involved.

“Why is it,” I asked,”that you can say whatever you want, and I’m supposed to just choke it down?  Why do I get to be the rational one, while you get the dramatic exits? Why do I have to uphold a higher standard than you do?”

“Because, you’re winning,” he said.  “Look, if we’re ever fighting, and you don’t want to deal with it anymore, just say ‘Tough luck.  The guy I voted for is in office.’”

After that, I quit holding so much back.

Round 1: The Brawler

Brawler – “a slugger…a boxer who lacks finesse in the ring, moves slower, lacks mobility, has a predictable punching pattern, but makes up for all that with raw power and the ability to knockout their opponents with a single punch.” – http://www.ringsidebygus.com

When Nate and I fought for the first time, I had no idea what I was up against.

We had been dating for two weeks, and I invited him to go with my friend, Amanda, and me to a local bar for karaoke (I would later find out that Nate hates smoky atmospheres and bad singing).  The first couple hours went well.  We had a few drink, a few laughs, and a a generally good time.  Then, the DJ and Edwin Starr blew it all to pot. 

By this time, we had unearthed our political differences and, with all the etiquette that a new relationship calls for, were broaching the subject cautiously.  We would throw out a few playful jabs here and there, but had never sat down and seriously discussed our respective viewpoints.  In hindsight, that might have been well-advised.     

When the song, “War,” began to filter through the speakers above us, Nate took the opportunity to make a point.  He turned to me and emphatically sang along with the lyrics, “What is it good for?” 

He was calling me out. 

So, I gave what I thought was an appropriate response.  I shrugged my shoulders and said,  ”Historically speaking?  Besides ending British rule of America, the Holocaust, and a number of examples of inhumane atrocities world-wide…nothing, I suppose.”  I followed it up with a smirk in Amanda’s direction.

I thought I was being good-natured.  Apparently, I was being condescending.  Nate downed the rest of his beer, slammed his glass on the table, muttered something about “not sitting around and being fucking laughed at all night,” angrily snatched his coat from the back of his chair, and stormed out into the night. 

I stared at Amanda, wide-eyed and red from confusion and embarrassment.  She looked just as surprised as I was.  “What just happened?” I asked her.  She shrugged, bewildered.  Now, we had all been drinking for the better part of the night, so I mentally reviewed our conversation with the most sober frame of mind I could muster, just in case, in my current state, I had carelessly overstepped the boundaries of good manners. 

I concluded that, unbeknownst to me, I had been dating someone who was bi-polar.  It took me a few minutes to realize that it wasn’t all some lame joke and, searching for answers, I pulled out my phone to text my older brother.  You see, Nate and my brother have actually been good friends for almost a decade, and my brother is the one who set us up.  I thought he might be able to give my some insight into why his friend had thrown a queen-sized hissy and left his date/ride home with a half a pitcher of beer and a large, white man who refers to himself as “Beavis” singing “Gold digger” humping the air in her general direction.

With one inebriated eye shut, I typed out the message, “Um, I don’t think Nate and I are dating anymore,” and hit send.  Unfortunately/fortunately, my brother is also named Nate.  This is not as weird as it sounds, because I don’t call my brother by his first name.  However, sometimes when I’m texting without thinking, I send a message intended for my brother to my boyfriend.  Realizing my mistake, I quickly and diplomatically added, “Ignore that.  That message obviously wasn’t intended for you, as it included facts of which you were already aware,” then forwarded my original message to the correct recipient.  

Within seconds, my phone was ringing off the hook.  My brother actually thought it was funny.  He tried to explain that Nate has a habit of occasionally flying off the handle, seemingly unprovoked (information I could have used two weeks ago).  Meanwhile, Nate was trying to get through to apologize.  When I didn’t take his calls, he hurriedly sent text messages saying he was on his way back.  My brother advised me to give Nate another chance and, eventually, I answered the phone when Nate called. 

Suddenly, I had become that girl tucked away in the bathroom of a bar, yelling incredulously into a cell phone. 

And so it began.

I told Nate that his behavior was not only unnacceptable, but bordering on demented.  Apparently, this was not news to him.  I allowed him  the excuse that he sometimes gets overemotional because his father is dying and his best friend is in Iraq.  He came back to the bar, his tail tucked between his legs, and I treated him with kid gloves for the rest of the night.

In this corner…

I’ve always been stubborn and argumentative.  It’s sort of my schtick. 

It probably has something to do with my upbringing.  You see, when I was growing up, my parents were famous for their arguments.   Now, don’t get me wrong.  They didn’t argue like some violent, sick couples- who shouldn’t be together in the first place- sometimes do.  They just happen to be two responsible, passionate people, who love each other very much, but occasionally have epic disagreements, which they will often settle with a no-holds-barred, down and dirty, grudge match.  And, boy, are they seasoned professionals.  The funny thing is, though, that it only seems to have made their relationship stronger (and infinitely more entertaining for onlookers). 

In fact, my father proposed to my mother in the middle of an argument. 

As the story goes, they had been dating for two years and, once again, started arguing over something trivial.  After an appropriate amount of time, my father said, “Is this what I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life?”

My mother crossed her arms, set her jaw, and replied, indignantly, “I guess so.”

My father pulled a ring out of his sock and said, “Well, alright, then.”

This was the model I had of romance as a child.  It was only as a got older that I realized that not everybody’s parents acted this way.  Of course, I also noticed that not everybody’s parents are still together.  So, I began searching for the Benedick to my Beatrice, the Darcy to my Elizabeth Bennet. 

Well, “be careful what you wish for”, as the saying goes.  Did you ever see a sitcom with two characters that are romantically involved, but constantly arguing?  Well, that’s me and my boyfriend, Nate.     

We are that couple arguing outside of the bar and in the grocery store…and at dinner, and watching TV, on the phone, wearing hats, with a cat, on a train, in the rain…I mean, you name it, and it can somehow spark an argument.  We try to be considerate.  It’s not like we’re throwing liquor bottles at each other in the street and screaming about whether or not he’s my “baby daddy.”  The funny thing is that we agree on most things.  The problem is that our main points of contention aren’t the kinds of things people usually shake hands and walk away from. 

While I am staunch Conservative, he is a left-leaning Independent.  To make matters worse, his father is a laid-off factory worker who has been diagnosed with a freak brain tumor.  He’s a good man, who’s been dealt an unfair hand. 

Needless to say, healthcare is a hot button issue in our relationship.  While, about 90% of the time, my boyfriend thinks I’m the best thing that ever happened to him, the other 10%, he thinks I’m actively working in conjunction with the GOP to kill his father. 

To make matters worse, Nate did not have the same upbringing as I did.  They don’t debate politics or watch the evening news in his house.  They don’t argue, but rather, they maintain a certain level of cordiality with each other.  As a result, he tends to take things more personally than I do.  This often causes our arguments to take a subtle, but vital turn from politics to our relationship, and whether or not we’re compatible.   

Then, I start to take it personally. 

And so I find myself in exactly the kind of relationship I always aspired to.  The problem is (brace yourself), it’s not nearly as fun as it looks on TV.  While I can look back on some of my parents’ more animated arguments and laugh, it’s much more difficult to find humor in my situation.  Even though our arguments seem to amuse our friends and are more or less rooted in intelligent debate, they can become brutal all-too-quickly. 

I’ve often joked that the two of us should just throw on some boxing gloves and have it out, once and for all. 

At least then, we’d have some ground rules, and a shot at a fair fight.