The First Fight is SPECIAL

Disclaimer: Although the writing that follows is a “memoir” piece, many details may have been…adapted, or created (in my favor) because, at the time, I was quite drunk.

This is a prompt from Mama Kat's Writer Workshop: Write about a fight you once had that you were very passionate about, but now you find it silly.

In the summer of 1998, I was 22 years old and almost engaged to be married. We had picked out the ring and were waiting for it to be made, so really, I pretty much was engaged.

What a romance! When my now-husband and I fell in love, we fell in love hard – with much love and energy and positivity. It was obvious when we met that there were forces beyond our control bringing us together.

We went an entire year after we met in the summer of 1997 before we had any argument. There was not one fight…

Then, one day, we were on vacation.

We were tent camping in Estes Park, Colorado, and having a grand time, enjoying the outdoors, and the little town of Estes Park. One day, we drove into town to find a nice spot for happy hour. We felt like having some drinks before returning to our campsite and campfire.

We found a cute, little Mexican restaurant on the “main strip.” We sat at the bar, ordered our margaritas, and assessed the situation around us.

There was a group at the end of the bar that had possibly been there all day. They were loud and laughing and talking with the outgoing, feisty bartender. Soon, of course, they asked where we were from, and we all began talking and laughing together. Our spirits were high, and it was like we had started to create our own little party.

These people had been travelling all over. They INSISTED that we HAD TO hike in Bryce Canyon and pretty much the entire state of Utah very soon. Our lives depended on it. We shared that we were waiting on a ring to be made before The Proposal occurred. One of the men piped up, “I have an online pastoral certificate! I can marry you right now!”

Hoots and hollers all around!

Richard and I got married right there in this little bar of a Mexican restaurant in Estes Park, Colorado, almost a full year before our “official” I do’s.

The jolly group of people started buying us drinks. There was probably a congratulatory shot.

The woman in their group kept insisting that I MUST have one of the strawberry margaritas because they were the BEST EVER. My life depended on it.

I do not like sweet drinks. I do not have a sweet tooth. I do not even eat chocolate. Hardly ever. The last thing I wanted, at that already very drunk moment, was a strawberry margarita, and I needed it about as much as I needed a hole in my head.

“Oh, no thank you, I’m fine. I bet it is good!” I would tell her every time.

It seemed the group suddenly decided they needed to leave. Our little party dwindled. The gracious bartender told me, “Here, I’ll make you one of those strawberry margaritas on the house!”

I was starting to spin. I had had too much to drink. I was hoping to leave soon after the other group left, but here this bartender just whipped up a strawberry margarita and plopped it down in front of me, expectantly.

Just looking at it made my stomach churn.

I leaned over to whisper in Richard’s ear, “I need to go.”

Richard sat back, looked at me, and with shock and horror hissed, “We can’t leave! You have to drink that drink! She made it SPECIAL for you!”

Here began our first fight ever, and it probably goes down in history as our worst one ever.

Obviously, Richard had forgotten that he was travelling with his future wife (or actual wife, depending on how liberal you are about Mexican bar weddings officiated by a drunk Internet pastor). He must have been mistaking me for his bachelor roommates who consider it “alcohol abuse” (the worst social disgrace) to leave any alcohol behind.

I sternly hissed back, “I DON’T CARE that she made it for me, that was her choice, and I don’t have to drink it. I should be able to say no thank you, and leave. I am too drunk to have anymore!”

He said, “No! That is so rude! You have to drink it!”

I sat there in disbelief. This was my future husband (or husband, depending…) telling me that I HAD TO DRINK something that I DIDN’T WANT TO? That I clearly COULD NOT drink because of the state I was in? Did he not care about my health and well-being?! Why wasn’t he on MY SIDE and letting me do WHATEVER I WANT?!

Richard paid the waitress. We left. We got outside. It was still light outside! We were raving drunk. We could not drive back to our campsite. We saw a park across the street and decided to go sit it out.

As soon as we sat down at a park bench, we started bickering still about The Drink. Our bickering escalated to all out yelling, and then you can probably guess what happened. I started crying. We were a scene. We were fighting with passion, completely convinced that our own side was right, and the other person was VERY WRONG.

In the midst of all this, about 20 feet away, a group of teens from a local church start singing Christian songs for passersby.

In a moment of clarity, we realized what a mess we were. The sun was starting to set. Park people were possibly planning an intervention for us. We started laughing. And then, the laughing didn’t stop. We were so over it. We got up and started walking.

We got back to our campsite and started a fire, and we were back to having a grand ole time, listening to music, roasting marsh mellows, talking, and laughing through the night. (That night is also marked by my eventual falling into a hole in the darkness, and we, literally, rolled on the ground laughing about it.)

This argument is like a historical story now in our relationship. We laugh about it still. At the time we were both, SO MAD and OFFENDED at the other. Truly. And, now? We see it as so silly. There are many times you can hear one of us say, as an inside joke, “But they made it SPECIAL for you!”