Potato Chip Fallout

I didn't buy the kind she wanted. Now I was walking home.

By David Stroder

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"Stop this car right now. I'm getting out!" I shouted. My emotions were boiling and I had to escape the confines of our car. "Let me out, right here!"

The argument, like so many marital conflicts, was over something really important: potato chips. Well, not just potato chips but the process of purchasing said chips.

Piece of advice: Before you demand to get out of a car, check to see exactly where you are.

My wife, Kristie, and I were on our way to a Sunday school picnic, and looked forward to a day of fun with people from our church. Sunny skies, delicious barbecue, cheerful conversation, and, of course, potato chips. That was our job, to bring those blasted chips.

As we drove to the party in my wife's sporty convertible, we pulled into a small Food Mart to fulfill our assignment. She said something about what to purchase, and I nodded.

I don't remember what she said. That's because I didn't listen. I'm a grown man; I think I can handle picking out potato chips.

I returned to the car, threw the bag in the back, and hopped in, ready to enjoy the lovely day, when my wife asked, "What kind of chips did you get?"

"Huh?"

"Did you buy the chips I asked you to get?"

"You told me to get a certain kind?"

"You never listen to me!" she said.

"Who cares what kind of chips I got? They're chips! I think I'm capable of buying potato chips," I said, sure this defense would win the argument.

It didn't.

She pressed the issue.

And that's when I made an executive decision: "Let me out right here!"

"No problem!" She slammed on the brakes.

Even before we completely stopped, I jumped free of the fight, the car, and the potato chips. Then I watched Kristie speed toward home.

Boy, I showed her! I thought. And then I looked around.

Piece of advice: Before you demand to get out of a car, check to see exactly where you are. As I scanned the area, I realized I was standing on a lonely wooded road miles from anywhere. The picnic was in a forest and there was no civilization within a 10-mile radius.

Those stupid chips, I thought as I slowly started my long trek home. I hoped dimly my wife would come to her senses and return to get me. But I knew that wouldn't happen. We were both too steamed.

So on I walked. Occasionally I jumped into the bushes to avoid passing cars. I was afraid one of our church friends driving to the picnic might see me, point, and exclaim, "Hey! Isn't that Dave?"

Several hours and five miles later, sweaty, blistered, and with feet and legs I was sure would never work again, I arrived home. Although the house was quiet, I knew where to find my wife—asleep in bed. That was her usual way to process conflict.

I stood and looked at her. I wasn't angry anymore; I was barely conscious.

She woke enough to return the gaze. I could tell she wasn't angry either. Then humbly, I said those two important words, "Move over."

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Originally published in: Marriage Partnership, 2005, Fall, Page 50

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