I had an epiphany. Are you ready for this? Okay, here it is.
I need to fucking relax. (And please don’t misunderstand the F word. It’s not angry, just… impatient.)
Now let me backtrack a little.
A few days ago (Tuesday, July 7th, to be exact), I was PMSing and hormonal beyond belief. (Sorry, men.) But seriously? “Emotional” doesn’t even begin to do it justice. I was going to cry. OVER EVERYTHING. I don’t do this often, so it’s hard for even me to deal with. (I can only imagine what it’s like for the people around me.)
On this lovely Tuesday morning, in my heightened emotional state, I gave into impulse and went through The Husband’s cell phone while he was in the shower. It was like an out of body experience. I didn’t want to do it. But I couldn’t stop myself. It was as if I had lost all control over my own body and someone else (my neurotic, psychopathic twin maybe?) was in charge.
I didn’t find anything. Well, nothing life altering. And, let’s face it. At that moment, a hair out of place would have sent me into hysterics. As it was, what I did find was enough to occupy my thoughts until MY BRAIN EXPLODED.
A phone number.
Not just any phone number.
A RANDOM phone number.
The number called him. A message was left. The call was returned. And repeat.
I obsessed about this for, oh, TWO DAYS.
At work, I asked a male friend what he thought I should do. Should I call the number? Or just ask The Husband? I was afraid to bring it up. Things had been going so well, I didn’t want to do anything that might cause a new fight. Especially if it was nothing. But I had to know.
My male friend said I should just ask.
So then I asked a female friend who said, “Call it. Right now. Just call the number.”
So, I did. (Are you cringing yet? ‘Cause I am and I know what happens.)
I called the number (*67, of course) and waited.
A woman answered. A WOMAN. I had hoped for a business of some sort, but no. She answered, “This is Melissa.”
I hung up.
I turned to my female friend. “Who THE FUCK is MELISSA?!” I asked. No, screeched. I think I screeched it.
We sat and analyzed the call for a good thirty minutes. Her tone of voice, her words, who she could possibly be.
I spent the day at work reaching levels of obsession I never thought I’d achieve. It was almost exhilarating. In a very sick and twisted way.
Then I was driving home. And I was sitting in the car when a thought occurred to me.
I can’t obsess over every random number that goes in and out of his phone.
Is it understandable considering our past? Yes.
But will it ultimately destroy our marriage and my sanity along with it? Yes.
I can’t turn into a psychopath every time he makes or receives a phone call. He could be calling ANYONE, for Christ’s sake. A doctor. A store. A colleague. Am I really going to go into panic mode every time he calls a number I don’t recognize? How is that any way to spend a life?
I could feel some sanity returning and I was beginning to feel almost normal. I wanted to drop the whole thing and get on with my life, but… let’s face it. I was much too invested to just drop it. I had to put this episode to rest.
Later that night, I called the number again, hoping to reach a voicemail that might shed some light on who this
slut person was. I got the voicemail, but it was clearly a personal cell phone. I was still in the dark.
The next morning, I checked his phone again to see when the calls had been exchanged.
And this is when I really went crazy.
It was the Fourth of July.
I was with him ALL DAMN DAY. How did I not notice he was playing phone tag with someone?! No, not with “someone.” With A WOMAN.
I tried to get back to my happy place, the one I had reached the previous day. Just because it was a woman’s personal number didn’t mean there was something inappropriate going on. I mean, NOT THIS SOON, right?
A few hours later it finally hit me like a ton of bricks. I remembered. I remembered the whole thing. (And suddenly I had an image in my head of a horse trailing a carrot. (Yes, I’m the horse.) It was like the answer was right in front of me all day and I just couldn’t reach it.)
So, here it is… in all it’s anticlimactic glory.
We were with friends on the Fourth. One of which got royally shit-faced and tried to drunk-dial a girl. Which girl, you ask? MELISSA.
The Friend couldn’t get reception on his cell phone and barely managed to get through to voicemail. In his message, he slurs instructions for Melissa to call him back on… wait for it… The Husband’s cell phone.
And guess what happened? You’ll never guess. SHE CALLED HIM BACK ON THE HUSBAND’S CELL PHONE. And left a message. And when The Husband retrieved it, he told The Friend who then used The Husband’s cell phone to continue his fun little game of phone-tag.
Wasn’t that a fun story?