I feel I should mention that Irish & I are giving ourselves breaks from Sober October, with the theory that if we drink nothing for 40 days, then start drinking again, we're going to binge-drink (this will probably happen anyway, but hopefully just that first night). So we're allowing ourselves one drink a week, or two drinks every two weeks, which seems to work better - unless a pitcher-with-a-straw can count as "one drink".
So last Tuesday, we went out to Friday's with a couple other coworkers after a late-night staff meeting, and each had one Irish Car Bomb and one beer. And while this may not be enough alcohol for him, it is for me, so when we were sitting in his car talking afterwards, I was at the point of alcohol consumption that breeds emoting and honesty, and for once we were talking about my life, not his.
I admitted that I'm not entirely happy being married (duh?), not entirely happy with Lui, a little bored, a little frustrated, etc. And I admitted that I won't be the one to leave if things get bad enough, that I'd wait for Lui to make that move. And I admitted that getting pregnant seems like "quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to me right now." (I'm not, by the way. But hypothetically.)
Irish pulled me to him so that my head was on his shoulder, and started smoothing my bangs off my forehead. "It wouldn't be the worst thing," he reassured me. "I'd be there for you, whatever you needed. And the kid would have uncles - three of them. Hell, I'd kick Lui out of the delivery room."
I really didn't know what to say, having been able to understand the sentiment, but not the extremity of his words. "...Thanks."
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Hahaha. Irish makes me laugh, in a good way. Tu me manques. I can't remember much french, and I am exhausted, so that might not be spelled right. Maybe, just maybe if you try you try to say it outloud and really fast, it will turn into something comprehensible. Maybe not.
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