My friends know that nothing enrages me like shoveling snow.
Yes, you read that right. It’s entirely irrational.
Recently I told one of my friends how I had to shovel a snow drift at the end of my driveway. Even though it took only a few minutes, I got so angry, I found myself saying at least a few choice words aloud as I did it. I could feel my whole body tensing in anger. “You have got to be f****** kidding me.”
She told me, “You should write about this in your blog.”
My response? “Why? So people will know how crazy I really am?”
She said, “No one really thinks you ever get angry. I’ve never seen you get angry.”
She’s not the first person to suggest that they’d like to see me get angry.
People routinely tell me that they think I must lead a charm-filled, stress-free life.
I assure you that this is both true and not true.
I choose to believe that my life is the way it is for a reason. That the reason is both me, and not me (in other words, it’s bigger than me). Nothing in my life looks the way I planned it. And yet, it’s both more and less than I expected.
Sometimes we tend to label emotions as good or bad. Anger isn’t a bad emotion. It can be harmful when expressed in certain ways, though.
One of my long-time male friends used to sometimes break furniture when the wrong team won the football game.
I always wanted to ask him, “What are you really angry about?”
He lives alone, so I guess if he’s breaking his own furniture maybe he’s not hurting anything (though I suppose it’s also an expensive habit).
As for me, I feel like an inanimate outlet for anger (like, say, a force of nature), while seemingly childish, is basically harmless. As long as I know what I’m really angry about.
I suppose it’s the adult version of a temper tantrum.
It also proves I’m human. (In case there was any doubt.)