A Manvocate Doesn’t Tell You Who You Are
I stood back, my eyes wide, with my hands over my mouth. I stared at the passenger door of my boyfriend’s car — I left it wide open for half an hour while we took pictures in front of El Capitan at Yosemite National Park. I couldn’t believe my irresponsibility. My boyfriend had hundreds, actually thousands of dollars worth of photography equipment in that car.
“I’m so sorry!” I shrieked. I prepared for his assault.
“It’s ok, everything is here,” he said with a smile.
I stood there, in shock from his lack of shock. I was ready to be yelled at. I deserved to be yelled at. Yell at me!
I wanted him to mansplain my stupidity to me.
But he didn’t. After I apologized again outside the Yosemite gift shop, he looked me right in the eyes, and said, “It’s ok, we’re a team, everything is fine.”
Then he hugged me. I was relieved, yet I still wanted, needed, some type of blame. I expected old patterns to repeat. Nisha does a stupid thing. Nisha is told she is stupid. Nisha feels stupid. Nisha is stupid.
This is what I was used to in my marriage, less than ten years before. One time, I forgot a specific type of cheddar cheese from Whole Foods, one that he needed to make his self-proclaimed “best breakfast sandwich” for my friends…
