needless to see, dinner concludes in silence and folded arms on both sides. it's time to head to the movie theater, which is right across the street. Toy Story 3 seemed like such a good idea earlier, but it's now the last thing you want to see—a light-hearted kids movie when you're on the verge of tears (stupid, frickin' hormones). "you just go see it, i can't. i can't sit through this movie now," you tell your husband and thrust the pre-printed ticket into his hands. of course you don't mean it and part of you wonders why you're saying it, yet it's one of those things you can't not say in the moment. it's like a placeholder for what you really want to say (which is something along the lines of, "if i knew it would lead to this, i would have saved the 'plan' talk for another time"). he gives you the are-you-for-real look and says, "c'mon, let's just see the stupid movie, okay?" but you shake your head, turn away and insist on staying on the sidewalk. he flaps his arms in a blend of defeat and frustration and heads into the lobby.
the next 30 seconds are spent having an internal debate with yourself: will he really go see the movie without me? no, he wouldn't. but what will we do if we don't see the movie? go home and fight? go home and be silent? how awful and idiotic will this seem tomorrow? go inside, you big dope. go inside.
so you go inside. he's heading to the escalator and you walk toward him. if he sees you coming, he doesn't acknowledge it. you ride up the escalator a step behind him. you pass through the ticket-ripper and head to the correct auditorium. he chooses seats toward the back and you flop down your stuff (because even though you're not still angry, the adrenaline is still flowing and you're not ready to be all humble yet). "you want something from the concession stand?" you ask, hastily. he responds, "no" in a similar manner.
you return five minutes later with one Diet Coke and one bag of Reese's Pieces (which you chose over all the other candy because you know he loves them). once the previews are over, you tear open the bag and offer him some. he shakes his head. (he's still playing hardball, clearly.) the ubiquitous Pixar short film starts—called Day and Night about, well, daytime and nighttime discovering each other, their stark differences and the unique and magical things each has to offer. it takes them a while, but at the end they totally dig each other. it's not your favorite Pixar short, but it's cute. as the credits roll, you offer your husband the Reese's Pieces one more time. just as you're turning to him, he turns to you and says, with that trying-not-to-smile smile you love, "that was us." he finally digs into the candy as you let out a laugh. then you lean in and kiss him, officially ending the cold war, and settle back into your seat for the movie.
it's your second time seeing Toy Story 3, so your mind wanders a little at various times and all you can think is how wonderful it is to be married. if this fight had happened a few years ago, you would have gone home, probably solo, and there would have been louder arguing, definitely a long stretch of silence. hell, it could have gone on for days. but marriage—well, one of the many things you've learned in the last seven months is that hardly anything (maybe nothing at all) is worth being so miserable about. the bottom line, which has been there all along but is so crystal clear now, is that you love each other. completely, totally, incurably.
you'll always be night-and-day different on certain things, but let's be honest—sparring is half the fun.
mbm
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