I keep getting cut-off in traffic. I’m guessing this is a common occurrence for everyone. Lately, though, my reaction is off-the-charts negative. “You fucker,” I say, “It wasn’t your turn.”
This is as far from enlightenment as one can get, I am guessing. I’m shocked at myself, wondering how I got here. Is it the stomach virus? Is it because I know I’m right? Do I need a vacation? Is Ballard in an unseasonably warm March not nice enough for me?
I am certain that I have taught my kids a new word this week. I remember when I first uttered this classy word. I called my brother Mike a fucker when I was in grade school. I am not sure how old I was. I do recall that we were in the car, and that he told my mom. I had no idea what it meant. I liked the way it rolled off the tongue, though.
I recall the first time I intentionally swore. I practiced before I said the word out loud. I planned when and why I would say it. I would go to my locker, realize that I left something at home that I desperately needed, and then I would utter the word shit. Of course, I had not forgotten one thing. Ms. Super Responsible didn’t forget things. But I said that glorious word in front of my locker and I felt so powerful. I told myself I would have to say swear words more often. Who knew that it felt so good? No wonder people swore a lot. Delicious.
Still. And yet. As I swear at unjust traffic incidents this week, I feel anything but good. I feel annoyed and powerless and stuck. These drivers are not going to apologize. Nor is swearing going to put me in a better mood.
It’s back to the yoga mat for me. All this anger, just or unjust, seems to be covering up some sadness. Unbearable sadness. So I’m going to be sad, and then I am going to get me some yoga bliss. And lunch with a friend. Those fuckers are not going to win.