The Two-Syllable Word

You know the one. The one that most of humanity sucks at saying - "Sorry". If we were to gauge how human we are based on our incapacity to say that word, The Husband would be the most human of all human beings. Because you could put him in a torture cell, tie him upside down and immerse him into a bucket full of ice before giving him an electric shock to force the word out of him, and he STILL wouldn't say it. I just don't get why. Also, should I be worried that I have elaborate torture techniques stored away in a tiny corner of my brain? I guess he knew what he was getting into when he married me.

But, seriously. Why is it so hard to say "sorry"? From the time we started dating, I have always wondered about this. And I'm not complaining because it's not as if he doesn't own up to his mistakes. Oh, he does apologise all the time. He just never says the word! Instead, he says things like, "I accept that I messed up." and "I understand why that is upsetting.". Isn't it a lot easier to just say sorry?

Then there are those apologies that come in cuddle form. I'm not so sure how I feel about them because who doesn't like cuddles? But something doesn't feel right till I hear the words if you know what I mean. The cuddles are usually the ice-breakers after our fight ritual. I don't know if it's just us, or do other couples have fight rituals too? If yes, I'd love to hear about them because I'm tired of being amused at people who like to pretend like they're Abhay Deol and Minissha Lamba from the movie Honeymoon Travels Pvt. Ltd. They were superheroes in the movie, people! And apparently, even superheroes fight once in a few years.

Our fight ritual mostly involves my getting really, really pissed off because it's slightly difficult to invoke any kind of reaction from The Husband. And because I always try to refrain from acting on my anger, I choose to be left alone for a while. In the meantime, I don't wish to see or talk to the idiot who's the cause of my anger because during a fight, he is DEAD to me. I withdraw into my shell, curl up with a book or my laptop and cook only for myself. I occupy one area of the house and establish that I will not be sharing my territory with 50% of the residents of 22 Nelson Street. We live like room-mates until I'm ready to speak without spewing venom. Basically, I turn into a horrible human being in order to avoid saying horrible things to a person I love way too much to want to hurt with the dagger that replaces my tongue when I'm angry. Most of that anger begins to evaporate within a few hours (and in extreme cases, days) of being left alone. Sometimes, the cuddles come too early and I kick him in the shin to indicate that I'm still in hibernation. But most of the time, the cuddles arrive on time and we are ready for my speech.

Oh, the speech. That's the next step in the fight ritual where I tell The Husband how wrong he is because we both come to accept how it was all his fault to begin with. And because I want to establish my dominance, and because it is hilarious to him when I give a serious speech while we're both standing (and he's looking down on me), I make it a point to have him seated while I stand before him to give my speech. Because The Husband's head while he's seated is at the same level as mine while I'm standing. #thestruggleisreal

After the speech comes the "I accept" or the "I understand" but never the "I'm sorry". Which brings me to yesterday. Last night, The Husband was making us spicy chicken wings for dinner. God, they were delicious. After a brief argument where I told him that the egg mixture is called an egg wash while he insisted on calling it an egg bath, he cracked open two eggs with one hand like a pro. And I had to shut up because everyone knows that I suck at cracking eggs. The feat was followed by many smug remarks like, "Cracked with one hand and STILL didn't get any shell in it." and I had no choice but to remain silent while all the trumpets were being blown. But the universe is kind, people. The universe was watching my humiliation and the next egg he cracked ended up entirely on the stove while the shells found their place in the bowl. It was pretty epic till I realised that I would have to clean it up since he was "in the middle of so many things" and had "only one free hand". So I demanded to hear it. He said, "I accept that I messed up."

"I understand that you accept that you messed up. But I want you to say the s-word."

"Sex?"

"Say it, bitch."

"Boobies."

That, to me, was progress. We're getting there, guys. He finally said a two-syllable word and it had an S and an O in it. That's good enough for the time-being.

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