This past weekend Steph and I both went out on the town. He, with a good friend of ours and me on a girls night. Being the dolt I am, I forgot to bring my mobile with me so at the end of the night when my feet gave out from hours of dancing, my friend and I hopped in a cab to the west sayeed of Toronto.
I was kind of expecting Steph to be home before me. He hates taking cabs, always trying to catch the transit on time to save cash, but when I walked in there was no one around. I drunkenly made my way around the internet for a while. Twitter followers, you may remember me asking where my husband was. As I went to bed at 2:45 am, he called saying he was coming home. Ten minutes later I was woken up by a text message saying that he was actually crashing at our friends place.
Sure, in theory, there’s nothing wrong with this. He’s drunk, won’t have to spend money on a taxi and can crash on a friendly couch. I’m drunk and have the bed to myself. Bliss, right?
So why did it feel so weird to me? Why was I lying there the next morning wondering when he was coming home, feeling angry that he wasn’t home “early” like his text said, thinking maybe he was actually at some girls’ house and not friends.
Maybe it was the booze, or really the hangover. More likely though is the fact that he’s usually the one that stays home because I’ve always had a more active solo social life. I’m the one that has called saying I’m not coming home, I’m drunk, met someone, whatever. He’s simply had more practice getting used to.
Whatever it was, and however silly it may seem, it took me a while to get over the fact that he didn’t crawl into bed that evening. In theory it’s really no big deal at all, but in practice it was another one of those little stumbling blocks that I can only get through with a little experience.
As it turns out, I needed a little taste of my own medicine. 
