The Time We Almost Broke Up

My boyfriend and I are pretty compatible. You know, when we’re not having screaming matches over important issues like whether or not the lid on the toilet should be up or down (note, I said lid not seat and I want it up). We’ve been together for a good five or six years, ever since we got drunk enough to start making out on a dance floor one night (we can’t recall the exact date). Shortly after that drunken display of PDA, however, we almost broke up.

See, I have a very firm stance on not laughing at other people’s misfortune.  I also, believe, if someone is as dumb as dirt, this is unfortunate. I used to work in an office with one very pretty girl who was born with the misfortune of being underserved in the “smarts” area. She once asked me what state Washington, DC was in because she had to mail a letter.

A bunch of people from the office, including the not so bright girl I will call “Monica”, decided to go for drinks after work. My brand-spanking-new boyfriend offered to pick me up so naturally I invited him to stop in and have a drink with us rather than wait in the car. Looking back, that was a tactical error on my part.

Monica, who was several martinis in by the time the BF arrived, took an instant liking to him. A lot of people do. People either love or hate the BF immediately upon meeting him. The BF, however, felt an almost immediate distaste for her. She blatantly hit on him; he removed her hand from his thigh more than once. I tried to intervene.

“Monica, dear, you’re making my boyfriend uncomfortable. Please remove your breasts from his arm.”

“Oh my gosh, I thought they were resting on the table.”

This is where things went bad. See, my boyfriend does not deal well with stupidity. He also happens to be a little bit protective of me. He very sarcastically and loudly told her that he was sure lots of girls lose track of their boobs’ whereabouts.  Somewhere in her alcohol fuelled brain, she realized he was unhappy with her and she tried making it up to him by showering him with compliments. He responded to each compliment with a wickedly sarcastic response that went right over her head but made everyone else in our group laugh. One guy even spit beer out his nose.  Gross.

I felt terrible for the girl. Sure she was hitting on my boyfriend but I blamed it on the alcohol killing off her already less than adequate supply of brain cells. All I could think about was how everyone would be talking about her at the office the next day.  I decided it was time to go. Besides it was getting late and we had to attend the boss’s Super Bowl party the next day.

“Monica, you obviously can’t drive home. Do you have money for a cab? You’re too drunk to take transit.”

Of course she didn’t have money for a cab. Fast forward 45 minutes and she could also not remember where she lived.

“Are you completely retarded?” asked the boyfriend, “You’re honest to God telling me you don’t know your own address?”

“Leave her alone! She just moved last week.”

“Why are you being so nice to her? She’s been hitting on me all night. That’s just rude! I’m insulted on your behalf. Would you rather I be kind to someone who’s trying to steal me away from you?”

“Oh don’t be so egotistical. She’s not trying to steal you. She hits on everyone! She lifted her dress to show off her newly shaved kootch to the tech guy at the last Christmas party.”

“Oh. Well now I feel stupid.”

Eventually we found her house. The BF dropped me off at mine, too and I spent the rest of the night fuming over how mean he could be. I even considered having “The Talk” with him after my boss’s party.

He picked me up the next day for the Super Bowl Bash; we rode in an uncomfortable silence.

When we arrived, I made the rounds introducing him to everyone. On the plus side, Monica was nowhere to be found. Also, all traces of his sarcastic self were gone. We even played pool against the boss’s husband and his pet, some total asshole who kept making homophobic comments, and the BF made a valiant effort to remain pleasant. He even tried to make conversation.

“So, uh, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a builder.”

“Oh, uh, how do you know the hosts?”

“I’m building stuff for them. Dude, are you going to play pool or stand here hitting on me all day?”

As we continued to win at pool, the day tanked into a downward spiral. The homophobic builder drank himself to an unprecedented level of belligerence. He wore on the nerves of everyone except the boss’s husband, who thought he was hilarious. I had enough. It was time to go before I said something I would later regret.

“Okay, everyone. This was a lovely day but we have to get going.”

“See you later, Boobs and Homo!” responds the drunk builder.

The anger that had been simmering all day now bubbled like acid in the pit of my stomach. Not because he called me Boobs. I’ve been called worse. It was just the final homophobic straw. Without a thought as to losing my job for screaming at my boss’s husband’s pet or how this would play out for the office gossips, I opened my mouth so the anger could spill forth. Before I could get a word out, however, my boyfriend stepped in.

“Have you ever heard of the term “projecting”? How about” latent homosexual”? You’re a builder, right? Build yourself a closet and step out of it, asshole. Maybe once you come to terms with yourself, you’ll realize being gay isn’t funny; maybe you’ll turn into someone people can actually stand to be around.”

Silence. A room full of silent, staring faces.

“And on that note, again, it was a lovely day. See everyone on Monday,” I offered up.

In the car, he profusely apologized for his outburst. As far as I was concerned, however, he had nothing to apologize for. After all, in a room full of people who would rather just let undesirable behaviour go for the sake of not making waves, my boyfriend had the courage to call the guy on it. And, I realized, he did the same thing with Monica, albeit not in the most polite or positive manner.

So obviously we didn’t break up. The fact that he speaks his mind, usually with some level of humour, is still one of the rare qualities I admire most about him. This, of course, means, I have a fofillian other stories of my boyfriend’s outbursts. Another day, perhaps?