I am in four seconds of the six-and-a-half minute wedding video. If it’s obvious to me it’ll be obvious to others.
“I am basically the crew member who gets flung off the Enterprise during the first two seconds of the movie,” I tell David.
He tilts his head in an attempt to conceal his smirk.
The smirk is more significant than he knows. For one thing, it lets me know that he, too, noticed that I was barely there; and that he anticipated that I’d notice, get my feelings hurt over it, and put forth a bitter comment.
The other thing it tells me is that, in his opinion, I’m small-minded for noticing.
So, in addition to being a non-presence in my son’s wedding video, now my sensibilities have taken a hit because my husband thinks I’m being petty.
Am I being petty? Yes. He’s absolutely right. The woman who took the video doesn’t know me and it’s her job to be where the action is and to catch the highlights, not follow the mother of the groom around. During the time that most of this video takes place, I was elsewhere catching up with old friends and enjoying myself immensely.
Also, I detest being the focus of attention, so it’s foolishness to care that I’m not the focus.
Still, when Sam was a child I discussed literature and nuance with him. And I taxied him from one extracurricular activity to another, years of my life spent in the car seeing that he arrived at a ridiculous number of events on time. Also, considering their future plans, I’m basically losing the son I raised to another family, far away. Ouch. There was a time when I was a force in his life. It seems like that should be worth more than just a few seconds.
Another takeaway from David’s smirk is that he doesn’t care that my feelings have been hurt. I guess we’ve been living together for so long, witnessing each other’s pains and joys for so many years that anymore it seems predictable and rote. There was a time when my pain was his pain, my indignation, his indignation. Obviously, no more.
The smirk also communicates a level of superiority, his sure knowledge that he is a better person than I. And this is true. He’s a way better person than I am, legitimately entitled to his self-righteousness. He would never get bent out of shape over something so trivial. He would never take time to count the seconds he’s in a video or take offence over a short film put together by a stranger.
On the flipside, he’s involved in many community activities, which means that he, too, has his share of successes and obstacles. With whom does he share his triumphs and frustrations? Me. And I never, ever smirk.
The critical intimation of the smirk also makes me question who I am. Am I wrong to feel the way I feel? Is my perspective skewed? Shouldn’t I be better at letting things go? Am I, contrary to what I thought I knew about myself, actually a narcissist? Is my mean-spirited reaction an indication that I’m spoiled and demanding? And lastly what do I do with my negative feelings if I’m made to feel horrible about voicing them?
Perhaps what’s needed is a bitch club. Does anyone know of one that I can join?
