Skip to main content

"Come On!"

Last night, I received about the most distressing (yet uplifting) news about my children since the day I last saw them. If you follow me on twitter, you already know about it. If you don't follow me on twitter....wait, why don't you follow me on twitter?

Anyway, the news put me into a very, very bad mood. After blasting what I learned across my social networking sites, I reached for my phone and dialed Sam. Truthfully, before my own mother, she was the only person I could think of.

Sam was remarkably patient as I told her what was going on. Being her natural, nurturing self, she asked if there was anything she could do. I asked her, selfishly, if she could come over. I immediately regretted asking. Doing so would be next to impossible so late at night; she would have to leave her daughter at home. I didn't want Dani to see me as angry as I was.

Yet, somehow, she still did it.
She walked in the door and immediately recognized how angry I was. She tried to find a way to let me release it, and...she stood up, and took a defensive stance. A defensive stance I showed her, by the way. Even as she did it, I couldn't believe the words that came out of her mouth.
"Come on, let's go."
I was bewildered. "Excuse me?"
She gestured, mock-confrontationally. "Come on. I want to help. Let's go."
I told her over and over again, despite her considerable hitting power (she could stun an elephant with her right cross) that I didn't want to hit her. That I would not hit her.

Without hesitation or a word, she picked up a pillow from my couch, balled it in half, and held it out from her body. "Come on." She continued. "Let it go. Come on."
Sam can take a shot, even from me, so I didn't see the harm in it. God knew I needed to let something go. So I had her turn to the side so I could unleash a few roundhouse kicks into the makeshift bag. I fired my right leg into the pillow and she took it well, barely registering the impact with her body. I fired another one. And another one. And another one. I rapid-fired five kicks in about as many seconds into her pillow before I finally caught the look on her face. Her eyes widened, her cheeks flushed....was she in pain?!
"Stop, stop." She said softly.
I immediately stopped assaulting my throw pillow. She almost dropped it, clutching her wrist, and doing her damndest not to cry. "What's wrong?!" I asked.
She's really trying not to cry, leaning on my couch, keeping her head down. "My wrist...I think I broke my wrist."
"WHAT?!!"
She immediately looks to me as though I've done nothing wrong. "Honey, it's okay. I'm fine!" As she talks, she has her right hand concealed behind her back. I almost tear it off to get a look at her wrist, which is crimson and swollen....and I'm thinking to myself I DID THIS!!!!

I'll admit it, okay? I cried, I did. I swore, up and down, I would never, ever batter a woman, no matter how angry I got. With everything I had learned last night, I had reached my emotional limit. She held onto me. She kept telling me it was okay, nothing was wrong, she knew what she was getting into. I gave her an ice compress (more like she took the one she had given me out of my freezer, I had forgotten about it) and before we talked business, she looked at me and said something I'll never forget; "You know, I came over here tonight with the intention of boxing you. I know now...I'm not at your level."

For a second, she pulls a play from my book and laughs about never having broken a bone before. She thinks its kinda cool. I have to chuckle at her; I'm may have broken this girl's wrist and she's laughing about it. I tell her that I hope her curiosity doesn't extend to gunshots.

It wasn't pride at hearing that statement; pride means nothing to Samantha. It was listening to her admit that she was not as good at something as I was, which is extremely rare. It was shock that she made the confession aloud that blew my mind.

Then we spoke business about the next step in my bad news. I told her; I didn't call her over because I wanted support, although I did. I called her because she was the logical side of our relationship, and she would know what the next move was. As usual, she did.

Most people know I have more than my share of hit and misses when it comes to relationships. I'm pretty good at helping two people hook up, but I'm not the best when it comes to my own stuff because I can be, well, me.
I look at Sam and I can tell you that no person on the planet pisses me off as thoroughly as she does. I can also tell you that no other woman in the world ever did what she did for me last night.
And I know I'll never do better than that.

I'm attracted to strength, I realize. Not fighters. Sam is far and away the strongest woman I know.

I just wanted to take a minute and say that. The post about the bad news? That'll come later.
In the meantime, why don't you follow me on Twitter? ;)

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

America: A True Story About Hatred and Unity

I wanted fast food tonight. That was all. I found myself at Burger King to pick up my wife's order. I was a few cars deep when I spotted the Confederate flag. I surreptitiously snapped a few photos. This was going to be a very different story. When I pull out of Burger King, it turns out there's more than one. In fact, there are four trucks, each flying variations of the flag. I have to go around the front of them to avoid an accident. They're parked right in the middle of the road. As I drive around them, each person in the vehicle makes it a point to ensure I see them. I do. They see me too. When I get to McDonald's (which is in the same lot), I learn that they're not taking debit cards at the moment. Terrific. I wanted chicken nuggets and instead, I get a run-in with the new Confederacy. So I make my way back to Burger King, again appearing in full view of the trucks. I place my order, get it, pay, and pull out. Then one of the

The Long Road Home

I will end you tonight. No, wait. That's not where the story starts. The story starts two and a half years before this, when Michelle (referred to as Michelle for legal reasons because SATAN was too heavily trademarked) reached out to me by Facebook. She mentioned that we played the same Facebook game and she wanted to say hi. I had never, in fact, even heard of the Facebook game. But I was freshly broken out of a relationship and she was pretty with a good body so I said "Hurr, okay." Conversation ensues. She tells me we came up in the same place. We did not come up in the same place. We spent one night in San Francisco talking. But I really wanted to sleep with her. So, "Hurr, okay." Fast forward a few months. I've left Missouri for the beautiful Pacific Northwest. I've settled into the ass end of Lynnwood, a suburb of Seattle. The apartment was so bad that the landlord wrote the mold on the wall off as "crayon coloring

Wave Rocketbook Reviewed

I love writing by hand, and I love notebooks. I'll often devote entire budgets to them and when Officemax has one of their twenty-five cent sales, I'll buy them out. I often draft by hand, finding that the scene comes together more purely when it flows from a pen rather than a keyboard. So when DailyDot advertised a durable new type of notebook that you could use over and over again for the cheap price of twenty-five (thirty after shipping) US Dollars? I'm down. The Wave Rocketbook is meant to be elegant in its design and simple in its execution. The instructions come on the bag itself, and only the pen and notebook are included. The pen feels like any other, so you have to be careful not to mix it into your collection or you will end up marking your notebook with the wrong pen (like I did). The ink is erasable, which is a bonus. A place to put the pen would've been nice, but it clips easily, if not securely, into the ringed binding. The paper is thick and