(Dis)Grace(ful) Under Pressure

I am the first to admit that I fall far short of the person I wish to be. My greatest hero and inspiration is the Dalai Lama. I want to be like him ...  an everyday human who manages to be intelligent, openminded, and serene no matter what kind of poop the world slings at him.  

Instead, I am a big mess o’ crazy, at least on the inside. I do my best to not give in to the ravaging beast that is always looking for a fight, and for the most part I succeed. But it’s not easy. Instead of looking at my fellow humans with compassion and understanding, I have the constant urge to whack them all upside the head and yell, “What are you thinking?” 

Case in point: I am currently dealing with issues at my son’s school that have nothing to do with any wrong he’s committed. Let me tell you, there is nothing that brings my inner mean out faster than Kiddo getting slighted, especially by those who should know better. So I’m stomping around the house, swearing like a sailor, and generally getting my angst on. I’m ready to go Momzilla, breathing fire and stomping buses and buildings.

 

Mrs. Jock, our signs clearly state no smoking on school premises.

 

Obviously, me turning into a movie monster that requires subtitles to understand what I’m ranting about is not a good move. In order to make things happen in a positive manner, I must swallow my fury. I must extend my hand in goodwill and camaraderie so that we can all work together to find a solution. Hopefully no one will notice how that hand shakes, as it is the one I always visualize using to whack people upside the head, as previously mentioned.

 

 

Angry Hand ... not as popular a game as Angry Birds

 

I am therefore somewhat glad to note that President Abraham Lincoln used to deal with similar issues. When infuriated by someone, he would write a letter telling them exactly how he felt about them, what new nicknames he would like to assign them, and generally where on their anatomy he’d like to stick his boot. Abe and I are kindred souls in that regard.  

I write blistering e-mails similar in nature. Whereas Abe would tear his letters up and never send them, I read my missives to my husband. I may house a brute in my heart, but I’m smart enough to know not to unleash it without running its slavering growls past someone with better instincts. Hubs usually puts the brakes on my rants by calmly suggesting, ‘Stick to the facts, not your feelings.’ In return, I yell at him for his wisdom ... and then hit the Delete key.

 

Savior of humanity and what’s left of my reputation.

 

Will I ever find the kind of inner peace that allows me to ask questions first and lose my marbles later? It would be nice, but I wonder. For now, the best I can do is throw my fits in private and then go out into the world with good intentions, a fake smile on my lips,  and my Whack-A-Mole hands crammed in my pockets.