"You two are like an old married couple."

A perfect stranger at the bar made that comment to me and my friend (aka Guy #3) last night. And I can understand why...we spent the entire night playfully bickering, each trying to out do the other. It was the kind of poking and jabbing that you do to someone with whom you are comfortable, someone with whom you can match wits...a sibling, a significant other, a good friend.

"What do you wanna do?"
"Your mom."
"Don't talk about my mom or else I'll cut you."
"Hey, ask your mom if her rates are still the same."
"Shut up. At least my mom's not a bitch."
"My mom's not a bitch."
"Yes she is. She's the biggest bitch ever."
"Nuh uh."
"Uh huh."

It's hard to believe that we're both college graduates. We both have professional science jobs at a reputable company where we are trying to develop a cure for cancer (among other things.) The future of science and medicine lies in our hands. We're smart, we're problem solvers, we are working day in and day out...measuring...calculating...doing the nerdy science things that science people do. But above all, we are figuring out ways to dis each other's moms. Neat, huh?

So back to last night: Guy #3 and I were maturely discussing the pronunciation of the word, "Gastrocnemius."

"The C is silent."
"No it isn't."
"Yes it is."
"No it isn't. It's not Gast-Rock-Nee-Mee-Ous. It's Gast-Ro-Nee-Mee-Ous. Silent C."
"You're wrong."
"No, you're wrong."
"Um, hello! I totally studied that in school. The Gastrocnemious muscle was totally like my second favorite muscle.* So I know."
"No you don't."
"Yes I do. And just to prove you wrong, I'm gonna look it up when I get home."
(This is the part where I turn on my PDA to remind myself to look up the pronunciation of Gastrocnemius when I get home.**)
"See...you can't even spell it."
"Shut up and go to hell."

Now this is where the perfect stranger (who was easy on the eyes, by the way) interjects, "You two are like an old married couple."

After we both awkwardly laugh, I turn to Guy #3 and say, "You know, you are one of my favorite people to argue with." (Normally, I wouldn't end my sentence with a preposition, but I was a little drunk at this point in the night. Sue me.) And he turns to me, gazes into my eyes, and replies, "Awwww...that's sweet. You're totally NOT my favorite person to argue with. You always have to have the last word, no matter what, and the argument never gets dropped until I shut up and let you have the last word." "That's not true!" "Uh huh!" "Nuh uh!"

Now, of course, this is another one of his playful jabs. But at the same time, I knew he was being truthful. He's right...I do always have to have the last word. I thought back to all of the debates of which I've been a part, all of the hissy fits that I've thrown, all of the argumements in which I've participated. Even if I know that I'm wrong, I still have to end with "You're mama!" or "Bend over and I'll show you!" or "Why don't you kiss my J-Lo ass?" or "Oh yeah? Well you're a cracka-ass-cracka!" or something equally classy and eloquent. I always have to have the absolute last and final word.

So why am I so adamant on having the last say? Is it low self esteem? Is it because I'm a spoiled brat? Or is it because I'm always totally right and everyone else (i.e. Guy #3) is always totally wrong? Well let's see...I used to have low self esteem, but I think that I've overcome that as I've grown older. I'm definately a lot more confident in myself and in all that I can and cannot do. I mean, have you taken a good look at me lately? I'm totally hot and I'm like the smartest person that I know. I'm practically late to work every morning because I can't tear myself away from the mirror. My beauty is just so mesmerizing. So I don't think that self-esteem is an issue here. As far as being a spoiled brat goes, well, my dad totally won't buy me a new beamer, no matter how much I whine about it, so that can't be it. I even threatened to never speak to him again if he didn't buy me the car of my dreams and he still didn't buy it. Can you believe that? Spoiled brats always get the car of their choice from their parents, so obviously I don't fall under this category either. So I think that I'm gonna have to go with option C, by default: I am always right. Therefore I must always have the last word.

OK, seriously, maybe my self esteem gets a little on the low side every so often and maybe I am a bit of a spoiled brat. And every so often, I might be wrong too. Maybe I can work a little on letting matters drop and not having to have the last word. That would probably be the mature thing to do. I really should try it every once in awhile.

I went to the same bar tonight with Guy #3 (again.) While I was there, I became acquainted with a new friend (Hi, Sarah!) and at one point in the night she said to me, "Wow. You are so grown up," at which point I laughed and said to her, "If you only knew...I am so far from being anywhere near grown up." Guy #3 then replied with some sort of jabby remark about me and how old I was. And you know what? I let it go. I let him have the last word. Maybe I am finally growing up just a little...PSYCHE! (I was totally right about Gastrocnemius! I win! Haha!)

Footnotes:***
*Yes, not only do I have a favorite muscle, but I also have a second favorite muscle. And yes, I realize that this is nerdy.
**Yes, I also realize that taking one's PDA to a bar and then using it to remind oneself to look up "Gastrocnemius" while at afore mentioned bar, is also nerdy.
***And finally, yes, I do realize that having footnotes in my blog is the nerdiest thing of all.