Dear dude in the blue Acura,
I’m not proud.
I saw your car backing out of its space in the parking lot. It rumbled toward mine, your bumper charging at my snow white Sentra. I slammed my hand on the horn, once, twice. I hollered, “What the F*ck are you doing?”
You braked, then yelled back and blasted your horn. And to me, it sounded like the bell of a boxing match.
Ding Ding Ding.
My green skin was showing, I know. Did you see the inner Hulk rip through my yoga apparel, my zen, mom-face morph into that of a comic book creature? Confused, were you? Yeah, I know. As I said, I’m not proud. The worst part: watching my 20-year old son unbuckle his passenger seatbelt and raise a stone fist as he roared, “Get out of the car, asshole.”
Thank god you didn’t.
My morning savasana– so out of reach. Decades of soul mining, sage verse planting, spiritual awakening and reflecting were bound and choked, in an instant, by my wrath. And in that moment, all I could access was rage. It was my emotional easy button.
Here’s the thing about me: I am chill. I say please and thank you. I am the last person you would imagine pummeling the guy in a blue Acura. But something happens to me when I feel bullied. Some kind of internal switch flips and the lights go out on my sanity. Blame it on years of sexual abuse. Blame it on a decade of marriage to a turbulent womanizer. These are reasons perhaps, but they are not excuses. When it comes to excuses, I have none. So call this an apology instead. It’s all I’ve got. I behaved badly, dude. I did. And for that I am sorry. I aspire to do better next time. But most of all, I want to teach my son this one important lesson that I have clearly failed to impart:
Anger does not equal strength. Strength is a matter of self-discipline.
I hope your day improves. Drive safely.
Sincerely and with much shame,