I experienced a thing recently and it has gotten stuck in my craw. I vague-ranted on a different social media platform and J was kind enough this afternoon to listen to me purge my feelings of anger and ill-will, but it still remains a bit stuck and I don’t know how else to get it out of my head.
We took J’s parents to brunch on Saturday, a belated celebration of my mother-in-law’s birthday. She chose the cuisine ( a fancy type of buffet), date and time and I took care of making the reservation and paying the check.
In other words - I hosted the meal.
J dropped us off at the corner across from the restaurant and drove off to find a parking space in a nearby garage.
My father-in-law, the one who is supposed to use a cane or walker and flat out refuses, decided it would be a good idea to jaywalk across the street.
Now it WAS a weekend afternoon in downtown Pittsburgh and traffic is quite light. But even in those circumstances, one does not jaywalk across the street, especially a street that contains a one-way bus lane and buses fly down that lane when the streets are empty.
So I yelled at him to get off the street and set a better example for his grandson.
Because we were so early we had to wait in the lobby, then at the bar for a bit while they staff finished setting up the dining room. We ordered drinks to take to the table.
Once settled at the table, we got up to get food.
I was the first back to the table and began eating.
Once the other members of the party returned to the table my father-in-law announced we are going to say grace. Out loud. Joined hands, the whole performative religious ritual.
Pause for a second. Grace in public dining establishments was not a thing that my family did, because you do not perform ritualistic acts of “faith” (and the quotes are very, very deliberate ) in such a manner.
And I absolutely hate it, because my father-in-law does it as an act of aggression, an oppressed upper-middle-white class man sticking it to all the bleeding hearts trying to take away his religions freedom.
Did I mention that I was hosting the meal? Paying for the meal. That I am Forty-five fucking years old and that I, the host, just got treated like a child. Paternalism with a massive etiquette violation on the side.
Something in my broke later that afternoon and has stayed broken, stabbing at the corners of my brain, gnawing at my insides.
And I can’t say a damn thing, because there is absolutely no way for me to stand up for myself that does not start a massive fight. Even a polite comment that I will abstain would be considered an insult.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. And fuck again.
