9. BANANAS

Anger is not a graceful emotion. I’ve never gotten mad and been like, I’m glad I behaved like that!

I feel weird about it every time.

Usually, knowing how weird I’m going to feel is enough to restrain me. But sometimes there’s just so much of it, and it isn’t going away, and you’re tired, and you start to think, Hey… maybe this isn’t such a bad thing… maybe I WANT this…

And then you get to see what the worst part of you looks like.

I found out what the worst part of me looks like during an argument with my ex-husband, Duncan, who is one of the nicest people in the world.

We’re both nice people, usually. But this wasn’t a regular argument. It was the type of argument you can only have with people you’re really close to—people you know so well you start to forget they’re a different person from you, so it sort of feels like nobody can see you.

I’m not sure where it started. There wasn’t an identifiable origin point. It began in 47 different places over the course of 9 years. But it crescendoed in the produce section of the Newport Avenue Market in Bend, Oregon.

The day before, we’d decided to finally tackle cross-country skiing, which is a ridiculous activity that nobody can feel dignified doing. Duncan had never done it before, so he didn’t know that yet. I know everything, so I assumed I’d be able to teach him.

We got up at 7 a.m., the worst time of day. It was also 7 degrees outside, which is the worst temperature. For some reason, we refused to acknowledge that those would be perfectly good reasons to not go through with this.

We couldn’t find the normal-looking mittens. Then we didn’t have enough coffee left. Then we couldn’t find the car keys. These, also, were ignored as perfectly legitimate reasons to stay home. We were too busy arguing about who lost the keys this time, which turned out to be me. I was therefore also implicated for the mittens and coffee. Nobody remembered to pack food.

9:30 a.m. We arrive at the ski place. Duncan immediately finds out how humiliating cross-country skiing is.

He falls over every four seconds. I keep trying to explain how to not do that, but it isn’t working—either because my teaching methods are ineffective or his learning methods are ineffective, but it is for sure somebody’s fault.

Our average skiing speed is .2 miles per hour. Eons later, we’ve gone almost a mile. We decide to turn back so we can eat lunch before it gets dark. That’s when we realize somebody didn’t remember to pack food. We each secretly blame who we personally feel was truly responsible for this.

Chili was the only thing on the menu at the lodge that day, so instead of eating lunch, we decide to go home. However, in order to do that, we need to go in the car, which is risky because there’s a long-standing feud about the car and whether it’s better to drive it like an old piece of lettuce or a NASCAR death-pilot.

Normally, I might’ve been able to restrain myself from going there, but we’re driving in the snow, and I grew up in northern Idaho, so therefore I am a snow expert. It’s just a qualification I get to have for the rest of my life, no matter what. Duncan grew up in Seattle, so he’s seen snow before. Therefore, he is also an expert and not afraid of dying at all.

900 feet outside the parking lot, Duncan stops the car. He says if I know so much, then maybe I should drive.

This is very out of character for Duncan. Duncan being confrontational at all should have been like a smoke alarm—a smoke alarm that says “Excuse me, but something extraordinary is happening… maybe we should be cautious while we still can… ”

But I’m feeling too self-righteous to notice.

We switch places.

Now he’s critiquing my driving.

Just to be a dick, I slow down to 5 miles per hour.

Cars are honking at us. Duncan says I should pull over and let them pass. I slow down to 2 miles per hour to see what happens. I’m so focused on being a dick that I don’t realize we missed our turn. But Duncan does. Suddenly he’s Mr. Safety, lecturing me about distracted driving. I stop the car. If he’s so talented, maybe he should drive. We switch places.

For some reason, we decide that this would be the correct time to go grocery shopping. We disagree about the fastest way to get there. He’s driving, though, so we go his way. Both ways would be slow at this time of day, but the fact that Duncan’s way is also slow seems like proof that Duncan’s way is wrong.

The instant we enter the parking lot, the debate about parking strategy awakens. Duncan is still driving, so I have to sit there while he wastes all of our time hunting for the parking spot of his dreams when we could just park one row away and already be inside, and this is doubly infuriating because of how hypocritical it seems in contrast to his position on driving speeds.

By the time we walked through the entryway of the Newport Avenue Market in Bend, Oregon, we were so mad that we’d entered into that infinite loop where everything the other person does—no matter how innocuous it is—seems inflammatory. They could just be standing there, and it would seem like the most flagrant standing anyone has ever done.

I said, “Could you please get some bananas,” but not with the nice please—with the shitty one that means “Here, take this please that you don’t deserve and use it to get some goddamn bananas.”

“Why do we buy bananas?” he asked. “We just throw them away.”

This is true. It is a proven fact that you can never finish all the bananas. But I had so much anger in me. I needed to put it somewhere. It didn’t matter where. I just wanted it out.

I muttered, “Maybe you aren’t good at choosing bananas.”

Duncan hissed back, “Then maybe YOU should choose the bananas.”

This is a reasonable point. And when you’re in full-on rage-ejection mode, there is nothing more infuriating than a reasonable point.

You’re so mad, your brain starts malfunctioning. You can barely form thoughts, but you do somehow manage to form a sentence! It’s childish, needlessly inflammatory, and borderline nonsensical. You might as well throw sand at the person because saying this is going to have the same effect.

You’ve never been this far before. You know you shouldn’t say it. You know it’s stupid and you’ll regret it later. But it’s too late. The sentence has formed. It’s on deck, ready to launch. You’re going to say it.

The words start coming out.

And even as you’re saying them, you’re frantically willing yourself to change course. Say something else! Anything! It doesn’t need to make sense! Make random noises if you have to!

But there’s too much momentum. No one can stop it now.

“Okay, guy—guess what: you don’t get to choose the bananas anymore.”

A critical mass of anger awakened a primitive part of my brain, which unfurled like a cobra and spat the most hateful venom it could muster straight into Duncan’s face. And that is what it came up with.

Let’s pause for a moment and take a closer look at this tour de force:

At first, it sounds like I’m agreeing! Like maybe the argument is going to end!

This is the first sign that things might go poorly after all. You may have noticed, guy, that I didn’t call you a name. I could have, but I didn’t. Because I am a serious person, and you don’t have a name anymore.

I’m not sure what I was trying to do here. Hold on, before we find out what the next part is, I’d like to give you an opportunity to guess… go ahead—guess anything you want, guy. What do you think it’ll be? My six least favorite numbers? Moon facts? A poem about a ghost?

Perhaps I thought it was going to be a huge surprise for Duncan, and this was an attempt at sportsmanship. You’ll want to take a second to prepare yourself for this next part, guy. I’m about to go crazy.

At long last… the crushing blow.

Here, I think I was attempting to demonstrate the full force of my power.

It’s quite clearly supposed to be a threat. As though I have the power to decide whether he gets to choose the bananas, and god help me, I am finally going to use it.

The sentence sat there, unable to be absorbed.

Ten seconds passed in silence.

Then, in an equally nonsensical turn of events, Duncan got super offended. How DARE I say this to him? Who did I think I was? The emperor of bananas?

All he could do was stand there making a face like:

I could tell he wanted to buy a hundred bananas right then. No: a thousand bananas. Just blow our life savings on bananas for the sole purpose of demonstrating what a horrific dick I was being.

There wouldn’t have been enough bananas in the world to express it.

He’d have to buy the grapes too.

But he couldn’t do that any more than I could stop him from choosing the bananas. Neither of us could realistically prevent the other one from buying bananas.

And that’s hilarious. No matter how mad you are, you can’t stop somebody from buying bananas. Not really. Not if they keep trying. And I think we both realized at the same time how absurd we are. And not just because of this—in general. We realized at exactly the same time that we are both stupid, serious, mad little animals who desperately want to stop each other from buying bananas, but can’t.

And we never argued about bananas again because the risk of being unexpectedly confronted by your own absurdity while you’re raging mad isn’t worth it.