Monica Bielanko
That's What She Said
Just A Junk Drawer Dream
You can also find Monica's writing here:
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Balls Out...

To exude tremendous effort, to try extremely hard.

Ex: I decided to slack off and get a B in the class, but Ross went balls out and got a 100%

I spend a great deal of time ruminating on the State of My Union, my failings as a wife and a person with more than her fair share of intimacy issues. I don't mind telling you my marriage has come perilously close to failure on more than five, six or seven occasions.

A quick aside; go fuck yourself if you're mentally formulating snide commentary or an email along the lines of "your relationship sounds dysfunctional" and so forth. My husband and I know we're dysfunctional, in fact, we take pride in our dysfunction and don't need some supercilious internet fuckwit condescendingly explaining how a "real relationship" works. We don't care how you roll. And also, you bore us.

Back to us. We are dramatic, we know. I think we secretly like it that way - it keeps shit spicy. The spicy probably gives Mom heartburn as the last "incident" at Chez Bielanko resulted in a hastily packed suitcase and a phone call from yours truly to come-and-get-me-right-Goddamn-now-I-don't-care-if-you-don't-have-make-up-on!

She came and got me.

I just wanted to give the bastard a good scare. Now, as I write this, I can't even remember what we were arguing about. It all bleeds together, the arguing. Was it the time I was mad because he always walks a few steps in front of me, making me feel like a child who can't keep up with Daddy... or was it the time I told him he was more irresponsible than my beer-guzzling, frat-pledging, Eddie Vedder worshipping college boyfriend? Not sure. It's not really what you argue about that's important though, is it? It's how you argue. In retrospect, you can never really remember what kicked off the argument - it's the grenades tossed during the war that cause the most injuries. Three years and some change in and we're still learning that.

I realized something this past month, though. Balls out is the only way for married folks to fly. Balls out - as in it's you and me until the end. Balls out as in I have your back no matter what. Balls out as in I want to tattoo the name Serge on my heart because it is the only name that belongs there. Balls out as in anyone, anywhere, pales in comparison to the magnificent glory that is my husband.

And glorious praise was heaped upon him...

I am lucky. Here is why. You can only fly, balls out-style, if, underneath all the daily drama of alligning yourself, your life, your activities, your bills with another, if, all bullshit aside, you inherently know they are the only person for you. I have only recently metabolized this knowledge, made it a permanent and inseparable element of my DNA. Oh listen, I've tried to fool myself plenty in the past... When he's an asshole I've contemplated previous relationships, watering that grass until it appears greener than my own marital lot, to the point of disrespecting (albeit in my mind) my relationship with Serge.

But I can only fool myself for so long.

I always come back to the same emotion I felt on the night I met my husband. Awe. Astonishment. Wonderment. Marvel. Amazement. He is good. So good. In the end I know that sweet, sweet man who writes love songs for me and our dog, the one who has told me to fuck off, the one who texts me so much from Europe that I am sick of him from clear across the fucking world, the one who yanked the rearview mirror off my new car once in a fit of anger, the one who is on my side no matter what.... That guy? He's the only way to fly. His name is on my heart in forever paint.

And next time I need to call Mom because he's pissing me off? Just more dramatics... Underneath, we both know we're balls out. We're in it to win it. Holding-hands-on-the front-porch-when-we're-ninety-style.