I've had a low-grade anger lately, toward Jason.
I hate when I'm angry at him...hate that he's not actually perfect and he's human and does stupid things something. I hate, especially, that I don't just get over it as easily as I should. I hate my frustration.
I got upset with him not long ago about, of all things, the washing machine. I swear, when I become independently wealthy my first purchase is going to be my OWN WASHER AND DRYER that I do not have to share with anyone. If I leave the machine unoccupied for longer than thirty seconds he's putting something to wash in.
I know, I know. What a life, right? If that's the worst of my problems, I guess I'm pretty lucky because God knows most husbands I know don't even do any laundry.
As I was laying next to Jason last night, listening to him snore, it occurred to me that I'm mad at him because I'm writing a book.
Well, not exactly because I'm writing it. But because of what it is, what it says, and what was going on in the time period I am writing about. Which was markedly unfunny and sad and painful and a million other things that I don't really feel like talking about.
I am mad at him about a book.
I know this is not logical. I know all of this was a long time ago. I know that none of this is now and that things are so good now that I can't help but pinch myself sometimes and wonder how I got so lucky.
But I can't forget all the rest.
I wish I could.