Al and I had our first big fight last week. Lasted all day. It was stupid, too. Not insignificant, but I had to look back in my morning pages to remember what happened. The day that should have been happy (I got my first edits! I was excited to dive in!) ) started out wrong. I just wanted to get to work but I got an early text from a friend in dire need of whatever advice or comfort I could muster. It was pretty heavy stuff, not mine to share.
But it was there, inside me, weighing on my heart. I was just going to have to take my heavy heart into the guest room, where I’d set up shop for editing…but first Al needed some information from me. Just a password and user name. We’ve both applied for our retirement paperwork down here in Florida and that might not have been so smart. Everything has to go USPS to our home in Michigan then forwarded down to Florida.
Who knew this would be so difficult and inefficient? Me, that’s who. I’d heard from friends how easy it is to do all this stuff either online or in person. I wanted to do it last November! Al said not to worry, he had it all covered, he’d been to see the benefit rep at the plant. I pretty much put it all out of my mind. Then the paperwork began. Almost immediately, things went wrong. All along the process, we did our usual thing of saving names and notes from phone calls, new passwords from websites, doctor and drugstore names and numbers, we had it all and we filed it.
Except I misfiled one password that Al needed right that minute. He was online and he had to pay a bill. I looked in the files. Nothing. I tried to log in. Nothing. I tried a few other things. Nope. This system had never heard of me although I’d spent the day with them quite recently. After about an hour of searching, I gave Al the bad news. He was tense and his short fuse blew. At me. How could I not save an important password? Etc. I gave him one final sheet of paper with a unique user name and password.
“It might be this,” I said, sure I’d found the correct way into the system. I couldn’t resist reminding him of the benefit rep’s words: “Don’t worry about your wife, it’s you we need to get set up first” (which turned out to be incorrect as I am a couple months older than Al). Before he could retort, I held up my hand like a stop sign. Then I went into the guest room where work awaited. I took those inflammatory words “Don’t worry about your wife” in there with me. I’m not as healthy (mentally or physically) as Al, and my delicate constitution absolutely requires worry, upset and medication.
Would we ever get our retirement life settled? I popped half a Xanax before anxiety and anger spiraled into fear and tears. There in my temporary writing room, with my beloved things around me (books, laptop, phone, notebook, pen, desk with beautiful chair) I piled pillows and propped myself on the handy bed. I checked the time. Not yet noon. Perhaps the day could be saved. I checked email. And Facebook. And Instagram. Also Twitter. Since I don’t tend to spend a lot of time on those sites, I felt like I’d accomplished something. Everybody knows writers need to use social media. Why? Hmmm. Not promotion, exactly. Just to keep in touch. Especially in a pandemic.
Then, all caught up online, I read a little bit from the Regency romance novel I was then enjoying. (I have been on an absolute Mary Balogh binge for months now.) There was no joy. So I tried to take a nap. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t even meditate. Naturally, all I could think about was Al not worrying about me. Ever. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I hadn’t even looked at the document I was supposed to be annotating. And I hadn’t eaten anything.
I sailed through the living room where he was reclining on the sofa, perusing his iPad, and into the kitchen. Dirty pots and pans and plates and bowls and coffee cups lay on every surface. Really? He couldn’t even do his own dishes?! I grabbed a yogurt and went back into the guest/writing room. We didn’t speak. I didn’t even look at him. But I was seething. After yogurt, I decided to get down to work. Then I noticed it was getting on to 4 o’clock when my dear Nicolle Wallace reports the news on Deadline White House.
We have a guest room television, but somehow it was already a little after 4 pm. and her opening monologue is my favorite part of the show. And we only tape shows in the living room. So I went out and happily Al had gone on his daily walk. I sometimes go with him, but no invitation had been forthcoming on this day. He probably thought I was working. Earlier in the week, he’d moved my desk into the one room in the house he had no reason to enter. He knew I’d gotten my edits, he knew I had a plan.
A plan that had been thrown a curve. Plans have been doing that a lot since the onset of the 2020 great lockdown. I watched Nicolle. She was wearing one of her colorful tops. Even in her basement, she is brilliant, pithy, and impeccably detailed. She cracks wise at appropriate moments to ease the tense news of the day, smiling wide. When the world seems like it’s falling apart, Nicolle will make you think things are maybe going to be okay again someday soon. Meanwhile, here are the facts and don’t forget we’re all in this together.
After the news, I went back into the writing/guest room and opened my document. I worked on it for a few hours, and Al peeked his head in the door. “David?” he asked. That’s what he says when he wonders if I’m ready for the national news. David is David Muir. I like to compare how cable news and national news report the stories of the day. It’s amazing how much David leaves out, but he faithfully reports the bullet points.
“Okay,” I said. We walked down the hall toward the living room. “Do you know what I was doing today?”
“Yep.” I said. “What did you do about the payment?”
“Oh that. I mailed it.”
I went into the kitchen for a glass of wine. Which I felt I had earned. The kitchen was spotlessly clean. I pulled together some cheese and crackers and fruit, too. Of course I made enough for both of us. First fight as a retired couple in-a-pandemic-with-edits-due over.
PS I finished my edits the next day and got them to my editor. She said they look fine. Our next round will be in a few weeks, when we’re back in Michigan. And I have a real writing room.