Comfort

This past Friday, at noon, the mister left to go mountain biking and camping with a friend. (Not me. I camp. I do not mountain bike.) By the time I was knee-deep in my little meltdown, he was in eastern bumblefart and had no cell reception. I ended up leaving a slightly hysterical message punctuated by sobs and hiccups. That's the problem with holding it in, sucking it up, and waiting until you get home. The moment you get home, BOOM.

I called back the next morning when I was slightly less insane and left a message saying that I was okay (or that I would be) and not to let me ruin his trip.

KVE, whom I had spoken to the evening before, came over, fed me, let me talk about what happened, and then took me out for some retail therapy. Basically, she held me together all day and if it hadn’t been for her I’d have spent the day wearing leggings, laying on the couch, and whimpering. Bless her heart.

I got a text message from the mister while she and I were at the mall, probably the moment he could get a signal on his cell phone that said “I’m coming home right now.”

I ruined his trip anyway.

But he came home and I was so pathetically grateful that I cried some more. He force fed me a sandwich and stuffed me into bed, bringing the laptop in so I could watch a movie (the better to distract my overactive brain with) until I conked out. The next morning we discussed what had happened, and he kept trying to fix it.

That’s such a man thing.

Never was the difference between male and female versions of comfort so apparent.

KVE listened with a sympathetic ear. I know you’re upset. It’s okay. I understand.

The mister laid out options on the table like I was selecting from a menu. Here’s your problem; here’s how we’ll fix it.

It’s good that he kept me from wallowing by giving me something to focus on, but sometimes I wish he’d figure out that all I want is for him to hug me, rub my back and tell me everything is going to be fine. Even if it’s a lie.