5, 4, 3, 2...

Anger.

Vrede...Ira...Colère...Enojo...Zorn...Goosa...

To stew...to boil...to blow a gasket...to torque...to chap one's hide...to do a slow burn...

Anger is defined as an emotion related to one's psychological interpretation of having been offended, wronged or denied and a tendency to undo that by retaliation. Normal, natural, experienced by all cultures, race, socio-economic class, religious affiliation and beer preferences.  It's a strong emotion...uncomfortable, evoking a visceral response to some perceived provocation. Even has physical manifestations such as elevated blood pressure, rapid heart rate, dilated pupils and increased blood flow to large muscle masses. Some psychologists view it as a negative emotional response while other see only the positive. Some even categorize it with words such as 'modalities,' 'locus,' 'impulsivity'...

blah blah effing blah

Anger is what I live with. And it's an unwelcome tenant that doesn't pay the rent, yet refuses to be evicted or foreclosed upon. I'm angry. I've discovered that...thought about it...analyzed it...tried to chase it away with some sort of self fulfilling balm...but here it still sits. As a mature adult, educated beyond reasonable expectation, I should be able to trace my anger back to its instigation.  Be able to focus the vilification upon the true culprit of my ire. Yes? Yes. And I have. And my enemy is me. 

Would you like to know what makes me angry today? 

The grocery store.

The grocery store makes me angry. The massive collection of organized foodstuffs that only offers me sustenance and culinary yumminess. I see you, produce. I see you in all your colorful, vitamin filled healthiness. And I loathe you. You remind me of my lack of time and organizational abilities...and my woeful cooking skills. I cannot turn you into gorgeous dishes that my children rave about as we sit at the table with our matching polos and coordinated dinner dishes. No. You mock me...and I refuse to look at you while I hunt down your Appalachian cousins in the frozen food aisle. Don't look at me. I can't make time for you...because I don't. I could. 

Skinny people.

Skinny people make me angry. Their smooth muscles and well fitting clothes, and that spring to their step that advertises a self control that I lack. I am reminded of days when my pants were loose and my boobs didn't spill out of my bra...and I had an abdomen less reminiscent of Jabba the Hutt's butt. I could look that good again. I could regiment my eating and exercise and whittle away at the layer of chubbiness that has made itself so much at home...but I don't. I could make excuses for why I don't...too tired, too poor, too little time. But it's all lies. I no longer look the way I did because I'm lazy.  I don't want to do it. So I don't.

My email.

My email makes me angry. My beautiful inbox full of goodies and stories and simple 'hellos' from people that care about me and that make me smile everyday with their willingness to call me a friend. And I furrow my brow and sigh. Because I know I am rarely capable of returning that level of friendship adequately. I don't keep up with correspondence...I don't take enough time to compose a kind response to someone who really needs that time from me.  I don't have the right words. And I get angry. I feel selfish. Because I want to be the kind of person who can do those things. And I'm not.

My textbook.

My textbook makes me angry. Reams of education, graphic pictures and articles that make me excited to start something new. I get to learn. I get to study...I get to educate myself, and I know I'm an expert at that. But I'm also an expert at procrastination and self sabotage. I know what I want...what I dream of and desire. I want to be more than I am now, but what happens if I actually succeed? What if I do land that dream job and have a chance at being amazing? Where I can go to work and walk the hallowed halls of somewhere and hear the awed whispers of 'she's here...she's here'? The drama, the arguments, the 8000 things I will have to plan-mend-hide-organize-fight in order to move my life from here to there...from now to then. What's worse? Staying here...or going there? And I can't decide...and I can't commit. I can't. I irritate myself. 

The ancient philosopher, Seneca, believed that the best reaction to anger was to keep calm. To weather the anger with a clear mind and inquisitive soul. He said a certain kind of deception was needed to deal with anger. I think I've mastered that bit, actually. I don't look angry. I don't act angry. But the 'clear mind' thing is pure crap. 

Angry.

Krispy Kreme rots your brain

Today is a Krispy Kreme day...and why, do you ask, is it such? Let me tell you: the whole day has felt like a doomed conversation I had with the girl behind the counter at the Krispy Kreme donut shop one day...

*shimmer to flashback*

I am standing at the counter at a KK (Krispy Kreme) waiting to order a few dozen donuts to take to work (a couple years ago).  As the man in front of me orders, I notice the donuts on the conveyer belt going under the fountain of glaze, then being picked to get put into the box. But, 'lo!', there are donuts that are not picked and continue along the conveyer belt and through a hole in the wall. I wonder about this (because I wonder about stupid shit like that when I'm bored...I need to learn not to do this). Finally, it's my turn.  The woman/girl behind the counter turns to me:

KK girl: "Yeah?"

me: Wow. Enthusiasm...not. "I'd like 2 dozen glazed, please" (See? I'm polite and stuff.)

The KK girl punches this into the register. This moment gives me the opportunity to hang myself.

me: "What do you all do with the rejects on the belt?"

KK girl: Blinks "What?"

me: Pointing at belt. "The donuts that are rejected.  The ones you don't pick. Where do they go?" (You see...I'm thinking "free donuts", right?)

KK girl: Turns to look at belt. Looks back to me, puzzled. "We put the donuts in the boxes."

me: Getting a bad feeling about this. Eyeing my donut boxes now on the table behind KK girl, but possibility of free donuts still a siren call. "No, not the ones you put in the boxes. Those other ones that keep going. The reject donuts that don't get picked. Where do they go? Do you throw them away?" 


This was a good explanation, I think. Lots of details...'compare and contrast' and crap...with directionality and follow-up questions.

KK girl: Again turns to look at belt. Turns back to me and looks irritated. "Those aren't garbage cans, those are boxes. We're putting the donuts in the boxes. They all go in the boxes."

me: I should probably flee. But she has my donuts, and the mom/teacher in me insists on giving this now obviously smaller brained individual a fighting chance. I am a fool. "I see them putting the donuts in the boxes right there. But they don't put every donut in the box." Small steps...now, take her further, Kel. "Some of the donuts are left on the belt and they're going over and through that hole in the wall." Wait for her  to look at hole...good. "I want to know where the donuts go after they go through the hole in the wall. Do they get thrown away?"


I'm now thinking this effort may save a 3rd world country or something.  Maybe no one has ever noticed these rogue donuts in their crafty escape???

KK girl: Looks more irritated as she stares at the hole in the wall. "Those aren't the donuts we put in the boxes."

me: My cerebellum just peed itself in frustration as I stare at KK girl. I need a different planet. Now I just want my donuts. "That's right...those aren't the donuts you put in the boxes. Those are the reject donuts. Can you tell me what happens to them after they go through the hole?" 


I have probably taken on the tone of speaking to toddler...deep breaths...why am I still pursuing this? Oh yeah, my donuts.  At least we're speaking about same donuts now, right? I lay my money on the table in hopes to end this soon.

KK girl: Looks at my money...back at the conveyer belt...back at me. She does not present me with my donuts. "Your donuts didn't come out of that hole. They got put in the box."

me: Holymothersweetjesus! She's holding my donuts hostage! I don't give a #%& about the rejects anymore...free donuts won't fix this! "That's okay, don't worry about it." (I'm gritting my teeth as I wave the money at her.)

KK girl: Turns around again and now yells into the back. "Hey, Jack! This lady thinks we got her donuts from the garbage. Can you come here?"

me: WHAT??? What just happened?? I don't know who Jack is, but I envision broken arms...mine. Just give me my freaking donuts, lady! "No, no, I think the donuts are fine. Really. Here, keep the change...I'm running late anyways."


I'm sure that I can lunge over the counter and grab my boxes and still make it to the parking lot before Jack appears at this point.

KK girl: Stares at me and my money again. Takes my money and hands me the boxes. "Have a nice day."

me: How the $%& am I going to have a nice day when my blood pressure is now 200/110, I'm worried about a psychotic donut hit man, and I *still* don't know where the freaking reject donuts go! Must. Not. Kill. Donut girl.


I flee in self preservation as I hear a commotion in the back. Shit! Jack is coming.

And that, dear friends, has been my day. Enjoy!!

Shazam!

Some days I think I'm clever.

Really clever, you know? A roll of duct tape and a few paperclips and I could fix the supercollider or balance the national budget. Today I figured out blogspot...yesterday it was salvaging a broken zipper...last week, superglue and a pair of tweezers rescued my lipstick. Clever.

I smile to myself and wonder if anyone else notices these moments of insight and bursts of self-proclaimed brilliance. Anyone? Friends? Kids? Dog?

...God?


Maybe God notices.

There's no paparazzi or newsfeed to broadcast my occasional cleverness. No magazine or tabloid that knows of my existence and contributions to the world in general, but I walk around with my chest all puffed out, cocky and assured that I've impressed someone other than my own reflection...then my kids ask when I'm going to buy some more milk and wash the socks.

Exhale...shrug.

Can I get the milk and do the laundry in some spectacular fashion that involves 'oohs' and 'ahs' and other murmurs of amazement? Probably not.

I'm not that clever.