Putting my cute new brown sandals in my mouth when ordering Mexican food

At this point, even I feel sorry for Brad Mosiman. Not only has he had to endure a LOT over the course of his 31-year marriage but the past year and a half MUST have had him rewinding the tape of our wedding video to the part where it said, "sickness and health" so that he could check the fine print. Knowing what he knows now, a 19-year-old Brad Mosiman might tentatively raise his hand to ask some clarifying questions about the perimeters of mental health before saying "I do."

I had our day all planned out this morning. "First, we're going to stop at Shoe Shop A to buy me some cute brown sandals. Then, after we visit my parents (whom we haven't seen, in person, since September), we'll go to Restaurant A for spanakopita!" Brad nodded, impressed, as always, with my enthusiasm and optimism. 

By the time the forty minute drive to our destination was over, I had worked myself into quite a little state and canceled my shoe purchasing plans. "There's only three and a half days of school left," I explained to my husband as we sat in the parking lot, "I can live without a pair of cute brown sandals." "You haven't bought new shoes in over two years," my husband replied softly, discretely turning up the air conditioner in the van, "You've been talking about buying cute brown sandals for almost two weeks." He pulled me out of the vehicle and tugged me across the parking lot like a very reluctant balloon. I lurched down two rows of shoes and declared them all "not my style" before racing out of the store. "What exactly IS your style?" Brad asked, chasing me, "Early 1980s?" Relieved that that trauma was over, I plastered my flaming face to the air conditioner vent waiting for my heart rate to de-escalate, not noticing that Brad had pulled into the parking lot of Shoe Store B. "How about this one?" he asked, holding up a hideous shoe. "No." "This one?" "No." This one?" "No." "What about...?" "No." He planted me on a tiny bench with three hideous selections. I wrestled them on, appalled that one choice actually seemed to accentuate the fatness of my feet. "Do you like ANY of them?" Brad inquired patiently. I was beginning to wonder if he was working on commission. "This one isn't bad," I admitted, clutching the box like a teddy bear. "You mean the first pair I showed you?" Yes. He pretended to peruse ugly black lawnmowing sneakers to replace his current ugly black lawnmowing sneakers while I sat on the tiny bench and cried. 

I made it successfully though my visit with my parents as Brad carefully monitored me for any signs of a nervous breakdown. "Where's your kittycat clock?" I asked, noting its alarming disappearance from my parents' dining room wall. Brad was poised to intervene. My mother explained that they are continuing to de-clutter and down-size their possessions. "But how do you know what time it is?" I exclaimed. They pointed to a wind-up analog clock on the microwave-with-no-microwave cart (Alas, another victim of down-sizing). I squinted at the microscopic numbers. "We can also walk into the kitchen and look at the microwave," my dad said good-naturedly, as though it is perfectly normal for people to have to take a hike to determine the time. Thank goodness they still have a microwave. My mom laughed, "Plus, some people still wear watches." She and Dad waved their arms at me like they were preparing to raise the roof.

So I survived that experience as well. "Ready for some spanakopita?" Brad yelled over the roar of the air conditioning. "I've changed my mind," I told him, "I'd like a margarita." Dubious but still supportive, Brad pulled into Mexican Restaurant #1. Seating, like a thousand other things, is a BIG issue for me. Happily, we got a booth. Unhappily, it was trafficked on both sides. The left side of the booth boasted a framed window where the waitress could appear from the kitchen area, quite unexpectedly, to check on us. So, I got a little fidgety.

I calmly ordered my margarita, emphasizing the salt. I was thrown when a frozen margarita arrived (emblazoned with delightful teal-colored salt). I hadn't specifically ordered my drink on the rocks so that was my fault. I need to use a straw for a frozen margarita so, regretfully, the teal-colored salt was now just decoration as I refused to blatantly lick the salt from the rim (in public).  I got a bit more fidgety.

As we walked into the restaurant, I confidently proclaimed that I was going to order Guacamole Azteca. Looking at the menu (WHY do I DO that??? To try to look normal? Oh my gosh...that ship has certainly sailed...off the edge of a waterfall, into a whirlpool, before being crushed against the bottom of the sea.), I thought about the pork tips. Then I became confused about the difference between Chile Renalo and Chile Poblano. I asked (which is a BIG deal for me right now). "I agree," Brad said, "Asking is a huge milestone. But asking doesn't mean a whole lot if you don't LISTEN." Which of course means that I still don't know what the difference between the two dishes are. No matter. It was time to order ("I was on the edge of my seat," Brad admitted, "I had NO idea what you were going to do at this point."). I veered WAY off course. "Could I have the fajita quesadilla?"  I asked, "But could we make it vegetarian?" My server was taken aback. "You mean a fajita?" No. Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me? I repeated my order, emphatically. She wandered away, confused, returning from the now-confused kitchen to pop in, Hee-Haw-style, in our framed-in booth window. I shrieked. "Do you want cheese on your fajita quesadilla?" she asked. I was taken aback. "Who wouldn't want cheese on their fajita quesadilla?" I told her. She wandered away again, confused. "They might have mistaken you for a vegan," Brad offered, momentarily transitioning from spectator of the sh^! show to a guest participant. I giggled. As if. 

My order arrived. I looked at my husband who was valiantly attempting NOT to look at me. Aware that the kitchen staff was peering cryptically out at me, I whispered, "Doesn't one typically cut a quesadilla into cute little fun-sized triangles?" "It's time you knew," Brad said, reaching out to hold my hand, "that you invented this meal. Those poor people had no idea what you wanted." I used a knife to cut my giant-sized fajita, noting with surprise, the appearance of carrot coins, yellow squash spheres, mushrooms, and broccoli among the peppers and onions that I was expecting. I apologized to my server. "You were right," I admitted, "I should have just ordered fajitas." Gamely still trying to understand, she said, "You just wanted it all contained in one package." Yes. That IS what I wanted. 

To show my appreciation for my custom-made, made-up meal, I staunchly consumed the whole thing. "My tummy hurts," I whispered to Brad, slurping up the last of my frozen margarita with my straw. "I can't believe you ate all of that," Brad commented, "It was the world's biggest fajita." We drove home with the air conditioner on full-blast. "That went much better than I expected," Brad told me, shivering. "What?" I asked, "Shoe shopping or eating out?' He laughed. "The marriage."