So maybe you have an argument with your spouse.
An insanely heated, would come to fisticuffs - if you were that sort of people - fight, while walking down the street.
Even though one of you is twice as big as the other, you are people with equal amounts of intensity, and a comparable ability to hold your ground. If emotional intensity and stubbornness could be measured or sized, your enormity would match almost precisely.
And when you get that upset, you lose sight of whether you are right or not. Or reason in general.
So the very bad terrible fight? Worthy of blocks of violent, swirling, caustic magenta vitriol?
About the upcoming temporary location of your upcoming washing machine and dryer.
Kid you not.
I won't bore you with details, but will simply say that the options are either the basement - where the current hook-up is. Or the second floor, where we ultimately want them. But where water- and gas-line work will need to be done to install them. Holes will need to be cut in walls. Things like that.
I was certain Nick wanted them in the basement purely to inconvenience me. Not because, for the time being, it's practical, because we'll actually be able to, um, use them.
He wanted me to have to regularly haul my big belly plus laundry into dark, creepy scariness (it is, I assure you). To lumber down increasingly difficult stairs.
When the reasonable choice would be to have both delivered straight upstairs. And then just wait (and possibly wait and wait) until a plumber would be able to fully install them both.
I must say that I have never taken such an extreme and volatile position on appliances in my life.
This continued until about a block from home, at which point I stopped and began crying. HYSterically.
Wailing. Sobbing. All the way down the block. Past pedestrians. Into the lobby. Up the stairs. Down the hall. In the door. Straight to the bathroom - the only spot with any privacy at all.
And after a period of the kind of violent, ragged, utterly despondent sobbing that necessitates a towel rather than just a tissue, I finally calmed down enough to realize and articulate this:
It's not about the fucking washing machine. I want my dad back.
And now, after a night of sleep and a morning of distance, I've also realized the following:
It really doesn't make a difference to me where we put the washer and dryer when we move in.
Nick's the one doing all the laundry lately.