When does sympathy become something more sadistic? Perhaps when the person in question brought it on themselves?
But I mean this in the most loving way.
My husband indulged in a few too many glasses of wine the other night. He might say it was my fault because I didn’t drink my fair share of the bottle, but I say…not so fast. I didn’t even want a glass of wine last night, and most definitely not the dry red wine he was sipping on. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to keep up with him once he opened the second bottle. And I warned him somewhere around the third glass that he would regret it in the morning. He hadn’t cracked open a bottle of wine in some time. He had forgotten how easily it can go to your head. And as is always the case, those around you can always see the damage far before you realize you are in danger. I knew before I went to bed that he would be hurting in the morning, and I felt this little sadistic twinge, almost glad he would feel awful since he didn’t heed my warnings.
The kids never think I know what I’m talking about either. But Mike is an adult; I would have thought he would at least pause to hear what I had to say.
Not so much.
But I got the last laugh, and it was a belly laugh at that. He felt sick all day long. I know I should be ashamed of myself for feeling even the littlest bit of joy at his suffering…but I told him so. Yes I did…
Until the next time…No more wine in our house for a while!