Breathe Regular, Everybody

The thing is—This Guy and I never fight.

“Bullshit,” you say. “What’s that crap down there then? That crying on Southfield and is-he-gonna-apologize business?”

Allow me to continue. We don’t fight.

We have total reactor meltdowns.

Other couples have spats, little arguments. Feelings get hurt, words get exchanged, she cries he stomps, somebody apologizes, the end. This Guy and I? We communicate. We use “I” statements and are honest about our feelings. Oprah would be in awe. And, I mean, why not? We were friends—good friends, best friends—for years before we ever got romantic about it. When he got to Notre Dame, he called me to tell me about his first visit to the Grotto. Not long after that I spilled my guts to him about all the Commander Pop angst and schmuckitude. When something pisses me off or makes me sad, I tell This Guy. I’ve been doing it for years and it works and I’m not going to stop doing it just because it’s him that’s working my nerves.

Besides that, it’s not like we didn’t know what we were getting into, here. Best friends, remember? I knew he was temperamental, intolerant, took football too seriously, and unwilling to compromise. He knew I was moody, whiney, demanding, took hockey too seriously, and unwilling to compromise. Not like it came as a surprise to anyone. We knew the job was dangerous when we took it, Flip would say. There’s a lot of eye-rolling, maybe not as much bitching.

Other couples get their greater and lesser arguments out of the way with fair regularity and move on. This Guy and I float on a happy stream of contentment for long periods of time and then—WHAMMO. Class five rapids. And sharks. And little natives on the banks shooting arrows at us. Doesn’t happen often, thank god, only a handful of times that I can think of. Each one in its own way silly but still serious.

So we had one of those a while ago, and that’s what I was writing about. It’s all resolved now. I woke up to the international pastry cook off and This Guy standing in the doorway. It started out tentatively and careful, but we were cracking jokes in no time and back to explaining what we felt, what we meant, where it went wrong. Maybe when you have a blowout every month, it adds up to the same thing as not speaking to each other for a week every couple of years.

I like to think in terms of plot and characterization. At the end of the story, the main character should learn something. Since I’ve already copped to the fact that I am going to turn this whole experience into a short—what did I learn? The best thing in the world to know, and something that I sort of always knew. See, Friday night—after not speaking to him for five days—when I needed him, I called and he came. No questions, no complaints, just “I’ll be right there.” And why wouldn’t he? It’s what best friends do.

It’s been five years and eleven days. Or maybe more, depending on how you look at it. We’re back in the raft now and the waters are calm. They will be for a while, then it will get choppy again. Mamacita, Flip, everybody—quit worrying. We’re a bit strange. But it works for us.