I was just remembering the time my love (I’ve been with the man too long to call him by boyfriend, and we’re not married so husband is out, and fiancee is too much of an anal fantastic word) and I went to the store to buy light bulbs, and I called this guy out who was verbally abusing his daughter in aisle two. All 5′ 2″ 120lbs of me confronting a man several times my weight and height. So the large guy comes bounding toward me like an enraged bull, bellowing epithets, red faced and finger pointed like a vestigial horn. We crossed words, but I don’t recall what was said, probably because I don’t speak asshole. The funny thing was, considering the hulking juggernaut of violence and rage headed in my specific direction, I didn’t feel anything. Neither flight nor fight, which does not bode well for my sense of self preservation. I just stood there feeling calm and focused, and for someone with Asperger’s, that is a rare and coveted state of grace.
The large guy stopped short of course, and I glared at him with a dare in my eyes. Having prematurely spent his testosterone pay lode, and not quite making the money shot, all he had left was, “She’s my daughter! MY daughter!”
To be fair, I was not much more loquacious with my quiet reply, “Then treat her like you love her.”
I was then encouraged strongly by my love’s wise words, “Hon, we need olive oil,” and was ushered away to aisle six.
On the way home I reviewed my mental shopping list, and simultaneously ripped off a credit car commercial:
Light Bulbs – check
Olive Oil – check
Unresolved Daddy Issues – TBD
