Let it go

Well, after hours Ron decided to talk to me.  He wanted to know "Why I wouldn't help" him calculate cost-per-ounce on wine vs. beer.  I told him, I don't help with anything related to alcohol.

Why, he asked?  I told him it is easier for me to have a blanket policy.  If I help with some things and not others, the lines may not be clear.  I thought that was a very delicate way of stating...

"So, you think I'm going to force you into doing something you don't want to do?"  I said, you can be manipulative.  I don't want that.  He didn't agree.  Said "I'm not a monster".  I never said that, I reminded him.

I used a book analogy, right now I am black and white.  Before things were "50 shades of gray" (no, I never read it, and even Ron is revolted).  I laughed, he didn't.  I said, this way it is very easy to understand what I will and will not do, regarding alcohol.

He reminded me he could get his own alcohol.  I agreed.  He told me he got the clerk at Specs to help him calculate the cost per ounce.  Fine, I said.  I just didn't want to have anything to do with it.

I also told him I did not appreciate the verbal abuse.  I was very clear: I got up and left because you were cursing me and calling me names.  I will not tolerate that.

He said he understood.  Good, I told him, because I will get up and leave, every time you call me names or curse me.

Fine.  Then we went our separate ways for a while.  He cancelled the dinner trip.  Then, as I had water on the stove to cook my dinner, he suggested we go to the taqueria.  They have a special on Thursdays.

God had let me know, I had to let it go.  I couldn't walk around being resentful all night.  Sure, I agreed.  I was hungry.  We went out to dinner.

I was a little gloomy at first, talking about dark subjects, but I stopped myself and we talked about innocuous things like the cat and work.  They got a kick when he ordered fajitas for the cat, and I enjoyed feeding Bubba a meaty tidbit.

Bubba's now in my bed, he LOVES me so much.  I gave him a can of smelly stuff earlier, then the chicken.

Ron seems back to normal.  You can bet I will continue to carry my backpack, salt my emergency fund, and wear a good pair of walking shoes every day, though.