Growing up I had a difficult time understanding sarcasm. I'm not sure if it was because I was struggling with two languages, or I was just that innocent; afterall, I always say what I mean and mean what I say. Although there are some very sarcastic people in my family, you know who you are, it wasn't until I met my husband that the sarcasm began to boil my blood. Sarcasm exemplifies higher intelligence, he would argue. Sarcasm is the epitome of passive-aggressive behavior, I would retort.
My mental response to so many years of sarcasm has led to paranoia at the dinner table:
—How's the meatloaf?
—Yeah, well excuse me, I thought it was good.
I have learned that if he goes back for seconds or requests it for lunch the next day, then my cynicism was uncalled for and I can put my mind at ease, but now he's trying to diet. Here we go again.
—Would you like some more?
—No, but it was good though.
I roll my eyes and sigh.