Warren and I will soon be traveling south to watch SS compete in a national event.
I can’t wait to be in a little warmer climate after the harsh winter we’re having in the northeast.
I’m also looking forward to spending a couple of days with my family who live only about five hours from the venue.
As I was making plans, it dawned on me that we should let Warren’s parents know about the meet and ask them if they wanted to go.
Not want.
Not would like to.
Should invite them.
Whereas the idea of including my family excited me, I felt a sense of obligation when it came to involving Warren’s mother and father.
After all the years of…well…shit they’ve put me (and my marriage) through, there are few (if any) who would begrudge me not feeling enthusiastic about spending several days with them while I was on a mini vacation…
Constantly looking over my shoulder and waiting for some bit of insanity to be tossed at me, my spouse, or my children isn’t exactly my idea of a retreat.
But, they are family, after all, and since the notion had popped into my head, I did what I usually do.
I mentioned to Warren that we should give them the information and ask if they wanted us (meaning me) to make hotel reservations for them, as well.
Honestly, I figured the invitation would be declined, what with the cold, snowy weather and their ongoing physical woes.
That same night, however, Warren came home from work and told me they’d love to go. And, yes, could I please make reservations.
Folks, you won’t believe what I did (or maybe some of you will.)
I was sitting at my computer, typing, as I am now.
When I heard those words, I dropped my head in dramatic fashion and let out an audible huff, as if Hubby had jumped on my chest and forced the air from my body.
Right now, what comes to mind is that Shame Shame Shame jingle that plays on Arnold Diaz’s segment on the NYC Fox News station.
Fortunately the tune is also coming to me with a hint of a chuckle.
I’ve never thought of myself as a martyr, at least not in the negative sense, like this definition from my Encarta Dictionary: “a frequent complainer who hopes to elicit sympathy from others.”
And I’ve never considered myself to be the type of person who “brings difficulties, suffering, or hardship on yourself for something.”
Alas, there I was, the leading lady in my own Martyrdom production.
Hi. My name’s Annah.
There’s a martyr in me.
Here’s hoping that, if I can kick a twenty-six-and-a-half-year smoking addiction to the curb, I can whip this little compulsion into submission before it ever takes root.
What about you? Have you ever found yourself playing the part of the Martyr? What affect, if any, did it have on you?