Steps to Defuse an Argument with Your Boyfriend

There I was, at home, facing a major writing deadline and 7:30 p.m. was approaching fast. Not only did I have an entire 30-page chapter due, but my boyfriend was coming home from work and I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate once he arrived. As my anxiety attack came into full effect, I heard the door open and he entered the room to find me in a crazy state of panic and hypersensitivity. He didn't say a word to me, he didn't even acknowledge me. He was brave. Instead, he went into the closet and pulled out the dirty laundry and began to sort clothes.

As the piles formed all over the room, whites over there, colors over here and towels off to the side, we both kept silent. After the sorting, he left carrying a huge bag slung across his left shoulder. He looked like a Mexican Santa Clause, if Papa Noel was sexy, Mexican and sported a faux-hawk hairstyle. Minutes later, I joined him in the laundromat as I decided I'd be a good boyfriend and help out since 80 percent of the laundry was mine. He took up up eight machines and I was confused. I would have dumped everything in three washers (colors, whites and everything else) and called it a day. Then the real battle began. The pouring of the liquid laundry detergent.

I understand that everyone has their technique and method to doing things and I'm not "The Laundry Police," but I didn't understand the next step in his process. After placing all the clothes in eight different machines, he systematically placed seven quarters in the slots provided, but didn't slide the lever to start the machines, he waited for all the quarters to be placed. I hypothesized he wanted to have the machines all end their cycle at the same time, but never confirmed it.

After pulling all eight levers, and watching him run across the laundromat like a mad man in Las Vegas working the slot machines, I took to a bench to watch it all unfold before my eyes. He then pulled out the laundry detergent and began to measure tiny amounts of liquid to pour into the pre-wash slots. Once complete, I watched him as he went back to the first machine to pour two cups of liquid detergent into the washing-cycle compartment. I freaked out. Who pours two cups into one load of laundry? I caught up to him at laundry machine #4 and questioned him. His response which included a dirty look went something like, "This is how I like my laundry done and how I'll continue to do it." He also mumbled a phrase similar to "I like my laundry to smell nice, fresh and order-free."

I explained that the instructions on the detergent label recommended using half a cap full for each load and the amount he was using would wash the entire Iraqi platoon's laundry--twice. He continued to pour and I began a small breathing exercise. I practiced the art of "letting go" and was doing good up until I saw the fabric softener come out of the bag. He used an entire 2-gallon jug on our wash, which explained why, no matter how much I sprayed myself with fine colognes, I'd still smelled like a sunny spring day.

I retaliated and right before the Asian laundry-attendant's eyes, I became the stereotypical Gay--fighting in the laundromat with his boyfriend over fabric softener. And after statements like, "You're abusing the sacred balancing act of fabric softening" and "I don't care how Jason does his laundry" along with the ever-popular, "I can't get on the train without people adjusting their nostrils when I enter," we began to laugh. I'm confident the laundry-attendant was in the process of dialing 911, when we realized our social faux-pas and toned it down. We went outside for a walk and knew it was other life stressors bothering us, and not the act of laundry that was making us insane.

What I did was, in the middle of this argument, I asked myself 3 important questions. (And I did it without sticking my tongue out at the other person)

1. What's this argument really about?
2. What outside stressors are effecting my behavior right now?
3. Is my battle really that important right this minute?

After I re-focused and calmed down; I reconnected with my authentic self and apologized. He didn't ask for my help and why should I care how he does it, as long as the clothes get clean. I was being a bit controlling and evil--something we Mexican Gays are good at. I also realized we can never do laundry together--ever--it's too stressful. And just like that, all was peaceful in the land of the Mexican Gays, or at least until we started to fold our clothes, he's a Nazi when it comes to underwear and I on the other hand am relaxed and don't care about 90 degree angles when it comes to my Calvin Kleins, but that's a battle for another day.