Sorry, on my way

No four words have the power to reverse the energy traveling in one direction more than “Sorry I’m on my way.” A boat can’t be put in reverse, a car can’t u-turn, a just proposed to woman can’t reject her lover with the same immediate about-face as fast as that simple, loaded, phrase.

Unlike the “it’s not you it’s me” or “do I look fat?” this phrase is consciously or unconsciously delivered to the person who is waiting and suddenly puts said person into the responsibility seat. A man that delivers the “it’s me” speech more often than not feels bad for the woman or he would have simple texted or emailed. A woman who asks if a dress makes her look fat often just wants to be hugged. But when someone calls or texts to say they’re running late they are often putting the fate, albeit often just temporarily, of the relationship, into the persons who is on time’s hands.

Because often the late one is waiting for a response. And one is left with how to respond. If you say that’s ok than you’re accepting that even though you worked out your busy schedule and made it on time then you may be setting a future precedence. But if you dare to give a sigh or a negative reaction you are almost certainly to be greeted with a huff and a puff plopping the insensitivity in your lap.

Now I don’t write this complaining about anyone in particular, I write this because of my fascination with we human beings reluctance to accept blame. We want to pass it off, deflect, reject and otherwise make someone else potentially responsible for our own shortcomings. It’s hard wired, I think, to keep us from being wracked with guilt and pre-occupied with our own inadequacies.

If not, we could go crazy, we would not sleep well any night…and we’d never meet anyone on time.

A Bug’s Life 20

A Conversation Between Angels LXXV

“You know Sue it’s funny to measure time by what we used to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“The holidays. Now is when I might have finally been able to get a moment’s rest. All the cleaning over…”

“Oh, yeah, I see what you mean.”

“All the cooking over….”

“Oh yeah.”

“All the family, trying to see everyone…”

“Amen.”

“And all the shopping. You know what I mean?”

——-

“Sue?”

——-

“Sue?”

“I”m with you on the rest Terri. But not the shopping, I’ll always miss the shopping.”

The Blob of B*tching Blogging

Man it’s been a tough couple of hours. I’ve been so tempted, like the way you want to tell an ex-girlfriend everything you never said to her and every sip of wine brings you closer to the phone. I’ve got a good one. I’ve got an absurd super corporate customer service story that is seemingly begging for my rapier tongue and wit. But I can’t, I’ve set out with the goal of this blog being positive, of not giving in to the beast. Of not growing the cloud of complaining and negativity that can only expand and rain even more poop on the planet.

It ain’t easy. I am a Pisces. There are two fishes swimming in me and right now one is Dory from Finding Nemo and one is Jaws. The evil chomping shark wants to take a bite out of this airlines and this supervisor. I’ve got her name. I’ve got rhymes for her name. And I’ve got metaphors and similes to compare the utter stupidity, the incredible amounts of disrespect and the absolute lack of wanting to do anything about their customers that could win literary awards.

It’s the kind of thing that the dark side of me flirts with in my head. It’s the kind of thing that I could write brilliantly and it could be passed around and create a buzz, create a reputation.

But the thing is, Dory knows that’s not the reputation I want. I’d be stuck with it. I’d have to be the “angry guy” and I still care too much about the future of this world and believe I have a place in it to bring the light. It’s too easy to complain the way it’s too easy to swear every five words in a comedy club. And we don’t need any more of that. We need more of the bright.  If I succumb then it could inspire some one else to do worse. I’ve learned first hand about consequences of my actions and I think I’ve still got some to make up for. 🙂

So the little goofy fish is gonna chase off the big bad shark. It doesn’t have anything to do with being the bigger man because it’s not even about being “better” than someone else, it’s about what I wrote about just yesterday. I huffed and puffed and my folks had to hear me lose it. But just like I said in yesterday’s blog, I’m gonna forget it. Maybe Dory’s short term memory is the way to go.

So there you go #American Airlines, I’m not going to say anything.

 

Oops. Bad fishy.

It’s All Downhill

Last night on the Family Feud, the survey question was “what age are kids the cutest” and the number one answer was two. But it got me to thinking, that’s not just when you’re the cutest as a kid, that’s it for life. That’s the peak for us all, men and women, and it’s all downhill from there.

One of my first jobs was teaching gymnastics, to kids 18 months and up, and I can attest to the validity of the Feud survey. That’s when kids are all smiles, all clean white teeth, and no matter what they do you can’t get mad at them once you look at them.

That’s because they’re pure joy, they’re pure life! Their eyes are as clear as a Disney cartoon, the color shining like a million pixels. They can wear absolutely anything and look absolutely adorable. All they want is to be tickled and play and hug. They want to explore, they want to learn, they want to talk to everyone. Even the “terrible twos” are just kids testing, engaging in, and challenging life. And when you want to scream at them you just can’t. Just let the tears well up and you are suddenly so aware of how petty and meaningless everything is.

And that’s it. From there they will really become kids and become adults. They’ll experience acne, growth that throws all the symmetry out of their bodies, lose teeth, their limbs won’t match. They’ll learn the anger and stress of the world from the adults around them and it will seep into their cells and replace their funny bones.

Never again will they want to be tickled, tell you to stop, then want you to start again. Never ever again will they cry with the intensity of an atomic explosion and then have no clue why in a few minutes time and once again be completely happy without carrying any of that momentary pain with them. They’ll get older and brittle and walk slower and slower.

But maybe not. Maybe we could learn to really let things go a minute after they happen, eat only what we need to go out and play some more, wake up every day wanting to live, really live. And maybe we can learn to love the poop in our pants and in our life, and enjoy squishing around in it.