When You're Married To A Stuck-In-The-Mud

Fickle Pickle Fun

Last week, Bee and I went on a double date with our friends Carmen and Allen (their names are much cooler than the lame pseudonyms I made up for them). 

Bee and I really like hanging out with Carmen and Allen, and the bonus is that they have an adorably tiny four-year-old girl named June who looks like she is actually the progeny of fairies; she’s particularly magic-like, since she is able to hold her own in adult conversations.

I like Carmen because she’s very Mother-Earthesque without being in-your-face or unapproachable.  She’s the type who can wear a polka-dot wool sweater and thick, striped leggings under a paisley-printed hemp dress and make it all look natural. 

I also like her because she’s still under the illusion that I have inner depths.

She and I like to get June and Mr. C together.  The kids get along great, and I don’t mind her daughter’s precociousness any more than Carmen mind’s my son’s tendency to tattle.

A few months ago, we hired a joint babysitter (who had an easy job, since Mr. C and June just ran off and played) and the adults piled into a car and took off across town to go paintballing.  That’s right: we spent the next few hours hiding behind rusted cars, jumping into plywood buildings, and diving behind barrels while shooting each other with yellow paint bombs. 

I have to say, I was really getting into it by the end.  After all, the only time it hurt was when I inadvertently startled Allen and he shot me in the ass at point-blank range.  The paint ball range even offered leagues, which I heretofore thought were joined only by teenage boys and TV show science nerds (and my brother-in-law: but I’m sure his team was MANLY!).  Were it not for the long drive to the paintball field, I might have more-seriously considered joining a team, if only for the fact that I think it would be hilarious to be a 35-year-old suburban housewife tucking and rolling amongst the poorly-crafted rubbish.

Carmen is now several months pregnant with her second child, so we decided we’d better wait before revisiting the paintball field again.  Last week, we chose what I THOUGHT would be a mellower double-date: the cd-release party/concert of one of our shared favorite area bands, The Shook Twins.

Bee discovered them several years ago when they were performing at a festival at which he was selling.  He bought their cd and brought it home, and I also became enamored with their harmonious vocals and interesting use of instruments.  We have tried to see them several times since, when they’ve passed through town, but always managed to miss them.  So we were pleasantly surprised to find out not only that they had a concert coming up that we could actually attend, but that Carmen and Allen liked them and planned to go, as well.  So, the joint babysitter was again hired, and the two couples again piled into a car for the concert house.

Here’s where it went wrong: I forgot how giddy Bee gets when he’s buzzed, and he forgot that I am often very mellow.  

Upon arriving at the concert hall, the four of us miraculously found seats in the back and Bee and Allen immediately fetched their first beers (actually second, as they’d each just had one at home).  The opening band started, and I gamely tapped my foot along to the cacophony of noise (which I actually DID enjoy).  Bee, who was unimpressed by the band, went off for his second (actually third) beer.

The Shook Twins came on, Allen stepped outside for some fresh air and to socialize, Bee disappeared into the crowd to get closer to the stage, and Carmen and I held onto our seats in the back and sipped our teas.

“Bee seemed very sedate the last time he’d had a few drinks,” Carmen said between songs.  “Is that usual for him?”

“Oh, no,” I said.  “He actually gets very wired when he’s buzzed. Very giggly and bouncy; he kind of turns into a bobblehead.”

Allen returned, Bee was nowhere in sight, and what must have been the World’s Tallest Man positioned himself in front of us, effectively blocking any view of the stage we may have had.

Allen, Carmen and I decided to forgo our seats and join the standing crowd: we headed towards the side of the stage and found a spot at the front.  I looked into the crowd and spotted Bee in the very center, calmly bobbing his head to the music.  Obviously, the beer hadn’t taken effect yet.  Allen, Carmen and I did the same from our vantage point for several songs, then I noticed Bee was missing from the center of the crowd.  Being a good wife, I decided to find him and have him join us.

I caught him near our seats, a third (actually fourth) beer in hand.  Nicely buzzed, he was just so very pleased to make my acquaintance.  I led him back to Carmen and Allen (the latter of whom was now also buzzed), and I returned to tapping my foot along to the music and enjoying the show.  For a few minutes . . .

. . . because a few minutes was apparently all the time Bee could stand to keep his limbs to himself.  “You need to move!” he yelled at me, demonstrating by showing everyone around us his patented dance moves, such as The Chainsaw and The Shopping Cart. 

“I am moving,” I yelled back, stubbornly tapping my toe harder.

He left me alone for a minute, then decided I needed assistance.

“Move around!” he yelled happily, helpfully poking me in the back repeatedly, punctuating each drum beat with a finger digging into my spine.

“I AM moving,” I repeated, slapping his hand away.

Another minute passed, at which point Bee found it necessary to start knocking his hip into mine.  Over and over.  Hard-enough to throw me off-balance in my heeled-boots.

“Move around!” he giggled.

“Leave me alone,” I said between gritted teeth.

“Oh, Honey,” he said, apparently chastised (though still happy), “am I bothering you?  I’m sorry; I’ll stop.”

He turned to Carmen and Allen and supportively yelled, “She never moves.” Then he joined them, since THEY were evidently dancing in a wild-enough manner to meet his approval. 

I turned my back to him again, and tried to regain my enjoyment of the show.  A new song began, and I had just started to sway my shoulders (a big move for me!) when Bee appeared in front of me.

“You need to move!  You’re like a robot!  She’s like a robot!” he explained, loudly, to Carmen and Allen.  Then, giggling, he started poking me in the ribs, once again to the beat of the percussion. 

“Cut it out!” I snapped.  “That hurts!”

“Oh, it doesn’t hurt!” he compassionately stated.  Then he poked harder.

“Stop!” I whined, grabbing his finger. 

“Hey,” he chortled, “Be nice!”

“I’m trying to enjoy myself,” I fumed.

He seemed happily contrite: “I’m sorry, Sweetie.  I’ll leave you alone.”  He returned to Carmen and Allen.  “She’s very even.  She just won’t move.”

Then he and Allen started loudly telling each other some story they thought was absolutely hilarious: hilarious-enough, in fact, that I had to physically put my hand over Bee’s mouth to shut him up when one of the Shook Twins pointedly shushed them so her sister could sing.

“Am I being too loud?” Bee yelled to me.

Then a fast song started again, and he found it necessary to practice kick-boxing moves on me, pretending to punch me in the gut while he bopped around.

“Dance, Monkey!  Dance!” he screeched, tickled pink with himself.

“Quit being an asshole!” I screeched back.  Which is probably the first time in our relationship I’ve called him that, particularly in public.

“I’m sorry,” he chortled.  But it was obvious he wasn’t, and that he was just going to bother me again in a minute. 

And the sad thing was that I’d actually been having fun before that.  I had been proud of myself for coming up to the stage, and I’d been having a good time swaying to the music.  Now I just felt self-conscious and uncomfortable. 

Luckily, the concert ended before I’d had the chance to work myself up into tears and flee to the bathroom just to get a little peace.  Not that the end of the concert brought peace, either:

“You need to enjoy yourself more!” Bee squealed, launching himself at me and trying to push me, good-naturedly, into the stage.  “Be rowdy!  You’re never rowdy!”  While I twisted out of his hold, he looked over his shoulder at Carmen and laughing Allen.  “She’s never rowdy.”

Then he and Allen spotted The World’s Tallest Man again.  “Hey!” called Allen, “why are you so tall?”

The World’s Tallest Man looked down his nose at them.  “Milk,” he evenly replied.

Bee and Allen collapsed.  “That guy’s awesome!” they agreed.  “Milk!”

Carmen and I eventually ushered them to the car, where they snickered the whole way home.

And I didn’t mind that part.  I think Bee’s adorable when he’s buzzed and, since it happens so rarely, I love to watch it.

But I DID mind when he kept bugging me about my dancelessness.  Why should he care if I didn’t want to dance?  Is he saying that I’m no fun?  OK, I know I’m not fun, but he knew that when he married me.  Would he be happier if I was more rowdy?  But wouldn’t our relationship be worse if BOTH partners were wild?  And, mostly: at my age, shouldn’t I be secure-enough about myself not to CARE if someone thinks I need to act out more?

The next morning, hung-over and miserable (yay!), Bee couldn’t even remember the ride home.  “You were kind of a jerk,” I helpfully supplied in order to fill in the blanks.

“I was?  I’m sorry, Honey.”

But I just changed the subject, because I didn’t blame Regular Bee; and how could I forgive Regular Bee for things Buzzed Bee did, particularly when Buzzed Bee would most-likely just do them again?

Which is why I don’t think I’d better go to any more concerts for bands that Bee likes more than I do: I will add “concert going” to the List Of Things Not To Do In Order To Keep My Marriage Safe (“trying to cook dinner” is also on that list).  Because there are just some things every marriage should sacrifice in order to avoid conflict.

But paintballing?  Apparently not one of them.  And the next time we go, if I’m still upset about The Shook Twins, I may have to find a way to accidentally shoot Bee in the ass.