The North Wind and Kirk’s Wife
Like many people, I’m angered by headlines, and AI that won’t let me talk to a human on the phone, and scores of other vexations over which I have no control.
And sometimes I’m mad at myself. I’ve been known to swear at my reflection for having said something I shouldn’t have, or not saying something I should have, or myriad other personal violations. If my husband was around when I was badmouthing my own behavior, he’d say, “Hey! You can’t talk about my wife like that.” We’d both laugh and I’d get the message. But he’s not here anymore—so this self-flagellation can get out of hand.
I know a guy who rages in my presence. When it’s about politics, I agree with him in principle, but his anger is, in a fashion, directed at me—and I didn’t do it! He says he’s just venting. And I tell him I don’t think it’s doing any good.
Seems to me anger begets more anger. The more I swear, the madder I get. A therapist once explained to me that persistent seething creates pathways in the brain that become superhighways for wrath. The cure is to avoid those routes and create new and improved neural thoroughfares. Calm ones—like a pleasant Sunday drive. If I am kinder, to myself and the world, the pathways I build will provide a rosier journey overall.
So I’ve been trying something new. I’ve instituted a prescribed timeframe for venting: 4 to 4:30 p.m. daily. In that 30-minute span, I am allowed to swear and holler and point fingers—especially the middle one—to my heart’s content. And, if on a given day I have spouted for the entire 30 minutes and haven’t finished, I’m allowed to continue until 5 —but only if I’ve been at it since 4 and couldn’t get it all in.
So now, when I begin to swear—at the king, at the headlines, at myself—I stop and say, “Wait! It’s not four o’clock!” And, Presto! The anger abates. I know I’ll have time, later, to address it. Consequently, my days have been cheerier and more productive overall.
Do I ever slip up? Indeed. Mostly when I read the news about what our emperor has done now, and I call him a name that shouldn’t come out of my mouth in the morning. But I catch myself immediately afterward and curtail any further obscene commentary until 4 p.m. —by which time I’ve usually mellowed out.
And that’s the point. To stay mellow. If, in the privacy of my own home, I holler at the man who is intent upon flushing our nation down the toilet for another bar of gold, he’s not going to hear me. I am yelling at myself. I don’t want to give him—or anybody else—that kind of power.
And if I’m hollering at myself because of something I personally did or didn’t do, it’s still not helping. You know—you catch more flies with honey.
It’s not uncommon for me to be walking my dog at 4 p.m. I can swear while walking along the beach—but I usually don’t. I am appreciative of the sun, sand, and rippling or wavy water and can’t drum up the energy to clench my fists and begin a tirade. Which suits me fine.
But if one day at 3 p.m. Arkansas time you feel a hot wind gusting from the northeast, you might send me a wink and a nod—or maybe a text that advises me not to talk about Kirk’s wife that way.
Cara Sroges