But I pushed through it because I'm a trooper. Who am I kidding; I pushed through the screaming television, the chorus of conversation and even occasional dog barking and got dinner simmering/baking or however I was cooking whatever I was cooking because I had to potty. And I also had to free myself from the man made constraint that we women call a bra.
Finally I was freed, unencumbered and in comfy clothes (go ahead & call me George Costanza). The momentary relief was enough to make me forget about the TV's Old Man Levels; and I exhaled for the first time in about ten hours. It was rudely interrupted by BEEEP!! BEEEP!! BEEEEP!! Dinner was ready. I retrieved it, served it, my family supped and then praised me accordingly.
Flopped down again when all was said and done...but something was wrong: the television was still screaming. I grabbed the remote and mashed the volume down button. Nothing.
"That's not the right remote." His voice instructed from somewhere in the distance.I blinked and remembered, that yes, yes, there is another remote. I crawled under the now blaring noise like a soldier under razor wire and grabbed "the other" remote. Aimed it firmly at the television and mashed down hard on that volume down button. But the clamor only mocked me.
"That isn't the remote, Rochelle." [said in a rather irritated tone, which is wonderful to hear after an eight hour day, after another hour in the kitchen while wearing a bra that squeezes the very life out of you while you reeeeelly have to potty while two different people talk to you about two different things while the dog is barking while the TV's at Old Man Levels.]I bit my lip and fought back the urge to accuse him of trying to Gaslight me even as he grabbed yet another, different remote control. One that I remembered from once upon a time long ago when the television was new, before we had cable or surround sound.
Then he went to bed and I exhaled. Uninterrupted. In silence.