Flipped the utilities over to my name today. Bought a small dining room table and chairs.
K__’s still out at “pilates,” which ended about an hour ago. It’s not the first time I’ve been unable to control having a train of thought that runs something like:
She’s with him.
You don’t know that.
SuuUuure.
Sure you’re sure?
No.
…
You know if you’re wrong, that makes you the asshole.
I don’t care.
Don’t care if you’re wrong, or don’t care if it makes you an asshole?
Neither. Don’t care if she’s with him or not.
Liar.
Touche.
…
You think she knows it makes me think this crazy, second-guess-myself loopy stuff?
Hard to say, but she’d probably start doing it on purpose if she found out.
Wait. So she hasn’t been filling her evenings with as many extra-curricular activities as possible? Like, that was just accidental? Or my imagination?
I might deserve it–might need that to get my head straight.
So you’re a masochist now?
That’s a prerequisite to marriage, right?
Note: If you’re keeping score, this time (and not the first), I’m the asshole. Reasonable story with corroborating evidence.
When I sat down to write this I had some other train of thought. Something about the attitude I got when I came home and revealed I’d paid actual money for dining room furniture, something about being made to feel like I should make do without or with craigslist castaways (that still cost actual money, but aren’t nearly as modern). Or that $650 is too much to pay for a bed, even though the one we bought when we got married was probably close to $3000. Fucking money.
We had a nice (?) conversation until about 1:30 am about finances and moving logistics and not-involving-any-lawyers.