You've got to give a little, take a little...

I am currently living out a scene from When Harry Met Sally in my own life right now - the one where the couple moving in have a fight about the wagon wheel table.

Only I'm not living that fight at all because there would be no fight. That table was awesome and that lady was crazy. In fact, I have spent most of my adult life looking for a wagon wheel table for my own house. And a discarded, old-fashioned card catalogue to use as a coffee table. Kind of like a poor man's apothecary table. If you see either of these things in a thrift shop, TEXT ME.

Anyway, my fight is about leather couches. Boy-style leather couches. No wait - boy-style blue leather couches. (Which are super comfortable, btw. But that's beside the point.)

So, naturally I found myself last night at the dinner meant to celebrate the decision to move in together weeping silently about blue leather couches while I tried to explain why. Of course, it's not about the couches. It's never about the couches. It's about what the couches represent, obviously. Whatever the hell that means. I can't be held accountable for my actions. There were several hours of ruminating about couches that spiraled severely out of control until the couches represented every single decision that has ever been made in my life. Welcome to womanhood.

Not that it takes much to make me cry, either. I cry at everything. I cry when I'm sad. I cry when I'm happy. I cry when I'm stressed. I cry when I'm laughing. I cry when I hear Rocket Man, when I watch Baby Boom and when I even try to relay that scene in Dumbo where his mom is in jail and they touch trunks and one lonely tear runs down her trunk onto his.

OMG, I'm tearing up right now just thinking about that scene.

It never used to be this way. Used to be - when I was in the throes of anorexia - you could not make me cry. You could spit in my face, call my mother names and kick a kitten right in front of me and I would not cry. Wouldn't dare cry. Those days are long gone, as are the heart palpitations that came with them. I think the trade was worth it.

Anyway, so I'm sitting there. Weeping silently. Trying to hide it from the waitress and not being that successful and I look up and this idiot is looking at me with this dopey, lovestruck grin.

And I'm all, "what are you looking at?"

And he's all, "my beautiful girlfriend."

"I'm not beautiful. I'm red-faced and teary and behaving like a crazy person right here in the middle of this fancy Italian restaurant."

"You are beautiful. You're just as beautiful right now as you are when you're all made up and perfect. Personally, you're more beautiful now. Thank you for showing it to me."

Nope, it's not about the couches.

And even if it is, well, they just don't matter in the grand scheme of things.