I Know You Ate The Last Tums: A Marriage Lesson

Tums

     Recently, while watching the Giants game, an event that would cause anyone to experience eye- bulging abdominal pains, I went to my bathroom medicine cabinet for a few Tums.  I'd just polished off the leftovers from pizza the night before, popcorn and some chips and salsa, and had drunk a fantastic IPA. We’d just arrived home that morning from a weekend trip where food and alcohol had been the focus, so to be honest, I wasn’t sure that even Tums was going to be enough at this point. But I certainly needed some kind of relief. And then, when I  looked in the medicine cabinet, there in the usual spot, were NO Tums.  I stood staring at myself in the medicine cabinet mirror and thought, ok, I am not going to have a breakdown, I am not going to go scream at my husband although I knew I did not eat the last one because if I had, I would've bought more or at the very least put in on a shopping list.” Calmly, I came downstairs, belching with each step, gripping my abdomen as it heaved and roiled and walked back into the family room.  There he sat, quiet, content, clearly not in agony, evidence that clearly he’d eaten the last one.

On the way down the stairs, I had geared up for battle and prepared my rant. Yet, for some reason, I took a second to reflect that I was the one who had shoved all of the food into my mouth and topped it off with the beer.  I was the one who knew full well that the pepperoni would rear its ugly head, and I am the one who loves the Giants. So, rather than erupt, I looked at him and tried to conjure the warm glow I’d felt about him all during our weekend away. And then, my stomach flipped over, my chest felt like bits of pepperoni and salsa had clogged my arteries, and I could contain myself no longer.  In the sweetest, calmest voice I could muster, I asked, "Honey, did you eat the last Tums, because I could really use a few now and there don't seem to be any left upstairs. I also noticed they aren't on my shopping list."  He looked up at me knowing I was holding back an accusation. “The bottle is in my suitcase on the bed. I haven’t unpacked yet,” he replied. I am instantly relieved because I know my pain is going to be gone soon, and because of course, he brought them with us; God knows we would never travel without them.  How did I not realize this and how had I not remembered to pack them myself?  Thank God for him.  Thank God I didn't scream at him. The man is a saint really. I headed upstairs to fish them out of his bag and while waiting for the physical relief from my gastric distress, patted myself on the back for handling this so well.  It's taken over three decades of marriage, but I had managed to think before I’d spoken and I considered my tone of voice when I finally did speak.  Instead of accusing him, now I felt physically better thanks to the Tums and was able to enjoy the evening with my husband while watching the Giants actually win one.

We are always so quick to blame, so quick to think the worst of someone, and so quick to accuse.  In this case, because I made a conscious decision to react differently, I saw that I could totally change the dynamic and still get what I wanted; Tums, and marital harmony. If he had eaten the last Tums and forced me into a night of abdominal agony or, at least, a trip to Rite Aid, would I have chosen to ruin the rest of what had been a fantastic weekend over Tums?  I mean, I love a Tums as much as anyone, but I could probably live without it.  Him, maybe, not so much.