One bad quality of mine: I have no issue arguing in public. I can’t help it! When I get angry, I feel an urgent desire to address the problem, no matter where I am or who’s around me. It’s probably because of my dad. He always seemed to enjoy yelling at my younger sisters and I in public spaces, specifically restaurants. Maybe the side effect of rendering those in our vicinity uncomfortable is almost enjoyable—if I’m miserable, everybody else should be.
My boyfriend, David, hates this about me. We sat down at a cafe last week, in an effort to do some personal work on our laptops next to each other, but ended up fighting. I wasn’t screaming, but I was definitely hissing loudly, increasingly incensed by his attempt to move our argument into G-Chat. This took place at the cafe’s “community table”, which was just a small table in the corner of the cafe, with one guy sitting across from us.
“May 2nd is coming up soon,” The man suddenly spoke, interrupting my stream of consciousness which mostly featured a slew of violent urges directed towards my significant other. He snapped us out of our moment.
We responded in unison—”What?”
“You know, May 2nd. The Pacquiao-Mayweather fight is on May 2nd. It’s the fight of the century,”
“Oh,” I said, confused, attempting a smile. “Sorry, I don’t really follow boxing.”
The guy laughed. He had short brown hair, looked about 30 years old, and wore glasses.
“Well, I’m just mentioning it because you guys are fighting,” He laughed again.
This is awkward, I thought. David and I laughed weird, broken, nervous laughter, which I guess he took as a cue to continue.
“You’re definitely the Pacquiao,” He pointed at me. “You’re on the aggressive at all times, and you throw all the punches. And you—” David was up next, “You’re Mayweather because you’re sneakier, and employ a good defense.”
Please stop talking, oh my god, I tried another laugh. “I don’t really follow boxing,” I said again.
He reiterated that the match was the fight of the century. The conversation ended up alright. We talked about the 50 Cent-Mayweather beef, and it became clear that this strange man hated 50 cent and adored Floyd Mayweather. David and I were more forgiving of 50, as we’re both fans, and found the whole Harry-Potter-illiteracy joke hilarious. At least we could agree on that. Our own fight became another small stain in our memory, a moment where we know we fought, but can’t remember why.
I spent the entire day on the couch yesterday, painfully hungover. I didn’t put pants on for most of the day. I drank some coconut water and vomited. I watched the Bruce Jenner interview, finally, and thought it was amazing. I had heart palpitations. I don’t think I ask myself if I’m crazy more than anybody else does. It is true, though, that I’m upset more often than most people I know, and I take it out on the same person every time. David ordered me a grilled cheese, and invited some friends over. The Pacquiao-Mayweather fight came up.
“I just don’t get which century this is the fight of,” I complained, finally emerging from underneath my blanket. “Like, why are people calling it that?”
Nobody knew. We Googled it. Apparently, this welterweight class match is important because these two legendary boxers, although no longer in their prime, have never fought before. Floyd Mayweather Jr. has won 47 fights and lost none. Manny Pacquiao is the only boxer that people believe is capable of unseating his record. The fight is also expected to break records for ticket sales.
“Do you want to watch it?” I asked David.
He shrugged— “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind.”
“We should totally watch it,” I told him. I know I scream a lot, but I’ll always try harder to never do it again. I know I scream a lot, but I’ll watch anything you ask me to.
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