To the Man Who Has to Deal With Me

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I think being completely unreasonable is embedded in the female genetic code. No matter who or where you are, if you relate with the female gender, at once in your life you have acted completely batshit crazy. It’s a scientific fact. For this, I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that I’m extremely surprised that I conned my way into a relationship and hoodwinked a man into marrying me. I can distinctly remember past conversations with myself about how no one would want to be with me when I couldn’t cook, clean or balance a check book…much less my emotions. Yet here I am, nearly two years later and (literally) a world away from my previous assumptions about my bachelorette eligibilities. So to the man who deals with me, and to all the men dealing with their own Rambler, I am sorry.

I’m sorry that sometimes I don’t have a reason why I’m in a terrible mood. Yes, it’s your fault, but also it’s not so just cuddle me. You can’t say anything right but you still should tell me I’m pretty and feed me things. Also I’m sorry for blaming you for making me gain those extra five pounds by feeding me. I can’t tell you why I’m an emotional disaster today, and yes your calculations are correct, the week of hell is still a ways away. I promise I’m not doing this to intentionally drive you insane, but give me Netflix and a nap and I promise I’ll be better. Maybe.

I’m sorry that I never know where or what I want to eat but that I know exactly what I don’t want to eat. I’m also sorry that every meal selection you’ve chosen absolutely sucks but seriously…try harder. Just pick somewhere and accept that I will have something to complain about and make our evening go by a little faster. No matter where we go, I promise that I will find something to engorge on and be completely satisfied and bloated over by the end of the meal.

I’m also sorry that I over exaggerate, but actualities are hard for me to wrap my mind around. This is why I am terrible at parking, navigating with a map and remembering your pant size. So maybe you didn’t drink thirty beers last night and maybe I didn’t literally  die of embarrassment over that WCW you posted, but you can’t get mad at me. This is a mental disorder. I am sure of it.

Lastly, I’m sorry for every small and large emotional disaster you have to deal with. I’m sorry I cry over nearly every movie I watch and article I read. I’m sorry I get teary eyed by every stray dog I see on the street and all the hurt feelings I get over things you don’t even remember saying. With all of this in mind, thank you for fixing my days, my travesties and my heart. Thank you for accepting the good and the crazy, even when you might second guess every decision you’ve made since meeting me. Thank you for being my sounding board, my solace and my friend. I love you.

Rachael Clemons
Rachael Clemons