Over breakfast, I said to my husband, “I think it’s funny when me and my two friends make Simpson’s jokes and Kim Jong Il* doesn’t get it. I love it when Kim Jong Il gets left out.”
Matthew laughed, “Yeah, I can see where that would be funny. That would make him so mad.”
“No, wait,” I said, “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m supposed to be working on sympathizing with Kim Jong Il so I don’t feel so flooded with anger at him when he’s around.”
“Yeah, don’t go somewhere and turn out like Kim,” Matthew said.
What I heard was, “Don’t YOU go somewhere and turn out like Kim.”
Instant tears. Over breakfast. At the diner down the street from our house.
“Honey, don’t be upset.”
“You just told me not to become Kim Jong Il.”
“No, I meant that like you’re learning to sympathize with Kim Jong Il, I’m learning that the lesson is to not let yourself or anyone else get so bitter and desperate that they turn out like Kim Jong Il.”
“That’s not what you said. You said, ‘Don’t you turn out like Kim Jong Il.’”
“I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean that. I said it wrong.”
Since this was me crying, and not some emotionally stable or rational person, I couldn’t stop crying for the next half hour. It’s over, apologies were made, explanations were given, apologies were even accepted (gracelessly). But nothing would stop the tears. Except a tall caramel macchiato from Starbucks. Caffeine and sugar generally fix anything.
* This isn’t really Kim Jong Il I’m talking about. Obviously, names have been changed to protect the guilty.
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