When Life Gives You Lemons, You Make Margaritas

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My cat didn’t run away today. It was too cold, and Lento is too smart for that. But to concentrate on today, I must write about yesterday.

I understand why people are exhausted from the isolation. Because it amplifies everything when you are solely at home. There is no way to deflect and go outside, buy a few pairs of shoes and books, and feel temporarily better. I get it now.

My husband’s PTSD is massive on him and is heavy on us all now. It is like a cloud that hangs and follows, especially when he’s experiencing a not-so-happy moment. It’s so unexpected sometimes, that, to be honest, it still catches me by surprise. He’s not violent, I wouldn’t have married him if he was. His fits have the worst timing.

Mamá raised me to be discreet and not air my dirty laundry in public (look at me now, ha?). “No pongan un show,” any adult in the family would tell us before leaving the house. They would wag their finger in our noses as an extra warning. This was our (my sister and me) cue to wait till we got home to do anything that may embarrass said, adult. I don’t think my hubby had the same training. He finds it reasonable to have a fit at Walmart next to the greeting lady and take his mask off.

Two things upset me at that moment:

1. He took his mask off and put himself in more risk of catching COVID-19.

2. He had a hissy fit in front of the greeting lady. Like a child. She looked at him and then looked at me, and I was so embarrassed. I shrugged my shoulder and debated on putting a ‘I have PTSD’ label on his jacket.

All I said was, “You didn’t say please either,” when he asked me to do something. My tone was sarcastic, in a joking way. Or at least I hope so. Or at the very least, I hope that’s how he took it.

I don’t think he took it that way.

Although I am conscious of my tone with him — a man’s ego is fragile — I have a tendency to shoot out orders. Mind you, we are on an apocalyptic shopping spree. We must bring a list and dash to get our items. The less time we spend in the store, the lower the chances of catching COVID. My husband forgets that sometimes. He wants to stroll through the grocery store. Yesterday he did better with speed, not too good with coordination. I remind him, “turn here,” “get in that line,” and I forget to say please. But we are in an apocalyptic shopping run.

I guess I forget too many times. He looks at me and says, “if you don’t say please.” I laughed it off and pointed him in the right direction again. We got to get out of here and get home where it’s safe.

I must tell you I suffer from allergies — I’m allergic to hypocrisy.

We are almost done. Almost home. My Hubs asks me to grab the receipt from the self-service register. I smiled and said, “you didn’t say please.”

I chuckle a bit because, of course, I find my joke funny. We are almost out of the door. I knew I should have kept my mouth close, but God knows that is not my strong suit.

Even cars give warning before they sputter and die. Not my husband. He takes his mask off and says, “I can’t do this anymore,” and storms off with the cart, passing the Walmart greeting lady.

I was going to say, “You can’t divorce me during a pandemic.” Another joke. But I kept my mouth shut. He needed to cool off, and my jokes were obviously not landing.

But it bothered me he could ask for a ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ but feel attacked when I asked him for the same. “Why are you so sensitive?” I asked as we were loading the groceries in the truck. I let a few seconds fly before I grabbed the cart and return it. I knew I would not get an answer then. As a matter of fact, I didn’t receive one for the rest of the day.

This is not the end of us. Of our story. I know. We love each other. I love him even with his mini explosions, deep depression, and everything that comes from being blown up inside a vehicle.

It will take a day or two or three for him to process. I will need to be patient and wait. We’ll talk about it, come to a compromise. It will happen again, and we will do the same dance again.

PTSD sucks. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and tell him not to get in that patrol. But whatevs. Life is that, life.

The outburst did not ruin the day. Before that and after were happy moments.

Before the Walmart outburst of infamy, we waxed our nostrils. I’m not proud to say this, but I lead in peach fuzz. Everywhere. Except on my face. My husband sports a perfectly symmetrical beard.

I can breathe better now.

Afterward, my kid and I played Animal Crossing. For two hours! I collected 130 weed bushels and only got a little over 1K bells. This is highway robbery.

My son laughed at me when my face scrounged after the squirrel looking thing hit me with a bill upon my welcome to New Horizons. Like, who does that? Who pays to play a game where you have to get out of debt to win? But I loved seeing my son laugh, even if it was at my expense. But seriously, why did I play this game?

That’s right, to bond and pass the time.

Today, we play again. Maybe I can get the Hubs to join.

PS: You can read the previous day, here.