Itchy Feet

I always seem to sleep so well when One Ball is in my bed. I’m not sure if it’s OB-specific, or if I just sleep better when someone is in my bed, but I enjoy it, either way. He did wake up at 4am this morning, though, at which point, he fancied a little conversation. So, that’s just what we did.

“I get itchy feet sometimes,” I absentmindedly said to One Ball, as we chit-chatted about travelling. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe I get bored in one place for too long?”

He sat up, switched the lamp on (which almost blinded me,) then glared at me. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing?” I frowned. “What do you mean?”

He got out of bed and pulled his joggers on. “I can’t believe you,” he muttered under his breath.

I was furious, but I didn’t say a word. He eventually stomped downstairs, probably to make a drink, or something.

Cracks are starting to show, friends. We’re starting to piss each other off, One Ball and I. He finds faults with pretty much everything I do and/or say, and I’m raging mad at his petty comments all the time.

Teething problems? Or are we coming to an end?

He eventually came back upstairs and got into bed, so I attempted to make conversation.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not saying anything at all. Maybe I’d like for us to travel a bit?”

“Great,” he spat back. “I’ll just up and leave, shall I? Leave the kids?”

Is this guy on his period, or something? Between this and the bat-the-hand-away fight, I’m starting to think he doesn’t believe a single word I say. Nothing is taken at face value; everything is scrutinised, overthought, and misconstrued.

“I’m sorry,” I said… again. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I definitely didn’t mean for you to up and leave your kids. I was just making travel conversation. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t say anything back. Instead, he rolled over, turned his lamp off, then went to sleep. Four minutes later, he was snoring… as I rage-glared into the back of his head.

This guy – One Ball – is not the same person that he was a month ago. He’s not. Something has changed. It’s like he doesn’t even like me right now, let alone love me, which is what we’re meant to feel for each other.

I replayed our conversations in my mind, trying to pinpoint the exact thing I said or did to make him apparently hate me, but nothing came to mind. Not one thing.

I haven’t brought up his dirty clothes all over my floor; I just picked them up and put them in the laundry basket (that was one-and-a-half fucking feet away,) smiling all the while.

I haven’t moaned about him wanting to spend basically all day in bed rather than actually doing something, like actual dates.

I was his post-vasectomy nursemaid, chef, laundrette, and personal assistant, all rolled into one…

So, what the actual fuck has prompted this argumentative teenager phase?

Why does my boyfriend actually hate me?

The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: The Tug of War.