The Right to Be Right

The way I see it: I'm right. You too might think the same thing. Who wants to be wrong? In matters of politics, music, drinking, religion, sock-folding, and relationships is this not the case with everyone? We always know what's best, most practical; in short, we're usually right, right? Or, maybe it's just me.

I won't be offended if you're not surprised that the boyfriend and I are arguing again. It's our favorite pastime. As I wrote last week, it's just getting to be a bit much. I mentioned that happiness is often overrated, but I didn't mean that I wanted to live in a bomb shelter for the rest of this relationship. I should have known. What, these days, is quick to improve?

After almost a year of us, I am faced with the fact that my boyfriend and I are very different. At the beginning, I felt that any of the differences we had could be overcome by the otherwise wonderful relationship that we were forging. I thought we were good. It seems that, while I couldn't care less about our differences, he is preoccupied with the culture clash.

In a world where diversity is championed and even chased with quotas, how different is too different? Is love ever enough? Does difference ultimately determine the expiration date on the side of a relationship?

Our differences aren't just taste in film, music, clothes, or drugs. We differ even in the ways in which we think and communicate. Our humor doesn't always match up. Our ideas of celebration, family, and youthfulness are different to the point of annoying him. Again, the differences don't bother me; fighting about them does. A trip to a bar on a Saturday night seems to him worth the week-long kvetch even if we only go every few months. It gets old.

Whose ideal isn’t moderation? We spend most nights at home. Occasionally, we go somewhere in the neighborhood, to a pub or to a friend's. We save the downtown drinking for special occasions involving guests or the advent of a new year. Even then, I can always look forward to the soapbox with the tirade trailing.

"Not too late," he growls. It feels like the curfew I never had. I guess he figures that if the bars didn't close at four, our friends and I would stay up until dawn drinking, smoking, poking fun at the periodic table of elements, and puking all over the musical theatre records that he knows we loathe. Alas, closing time is not enough for him.

I've done pantloads of thinking. I sit; I think. I steam bath; I meditate. The differences in preference, I can handle. The policing is another story.

"I'm right," I think as I write. How could I not be? But, ultimately, I feel as though it doesn't matter. It's like posting a sign in Alabama. It doesn't really matter what you write if no one around can read. I can be as different as I want. While the American Constitution may grant us the freedom of speech and expression, sadly, it doesn’t guarantee us a relationship.