Friday night, family dinner (his not mine). Wine, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine, wine.
A jolly time was had by all. Nobody noticed that I stood on the dog’s tail. And I’m pretty sure his dad took my lecture on parenting exactly as it was intended: as warm encouragement set nicely off by youthful wisdom. I’m certain that only the most paranoid of hosts would have interpreted my helpful points (illustrated with drawings on the nearest napkins and accentuated with “OK, with me so far?”s) as patronising.
Later, I think the calm discussion I instigated on religion and its (lack of) merits went down well. I would hate them to think of me as meek or unable to step up to an intellectual challenge. Although in stepping up literally to make my point from a greater height and with greater volume I did highlight the metaphor of “stepping up” by illustrating that while mentally I was at the finish line, physically I had lost control of my vocal chords and legs.
After my boyfriend helped me up and checked the cat was still breathing, I think I managed to complete my point succinctly and powerfully. I had, it seemed, silenced their arguments with my powerful skills of debate. In a friendly, son’s girlfriend, guest in their house, sort of way. In fact, so speechless were they that I don’t recall much more being said for the rest of the evening, which consisted of five minutes while my boyfriend said a few hushed words to his parents (most likely soothing words about not worrying about losing the debate or something, as we’re all friends here).
And then I sicked on the carpet.
Stage of grief: Denial.