Anger

Let me tell you a story.

This morning, I woke up on what I thought was the correct side of the bed. Boy was I wrong.

It all started out so lovely. The sun was streaming through the french doors leading onto my back deck. I had just cleaned the house yesterday, so the dog hair and dust motes were limited, and the living room smelled of peaches from my new scentsy. All together a pleasant way to wake up as I wandered through the house getting ready for work.

I got dressed, and I noticed my hair still looked fabulous from when I styled it for a concert last night. One less thing! I glanced at the clock and realized I might be on time to work for once. I smoothed some lipgloss over my lips, dabbed on some mascara and made my way to the kitchen to make my morning cup of Joe. Once my coffee was ready, I poured in my delicious creamer, screwed on the lid, and went to kiss my husband goodbye.

When I came back to the kitchen, I grabbed the travel mug and —-

It’s too painful.

It spilled. EVERYWHERE. The lid was not screwed on as I had assumed. The mug flipped over, and delicious creamed coffee went all over my freshly cleaned counters, under every appliance, down the side of the oven, pooling under the crevices onto the floor.

Ordinarily, this event would have frustrated most folks. But it’s just coffee, right? It can be cleaned up. It’s not devastating. Most people would sigh, say, “Oh, man!” and clean it up.

Me? I was livid.

Not just “I’m disproportionately angry about this” livid. More like “I’m so angry about this I’m going to holler at the top of my lungs for the whole neighborhood to hear about this injustice and then forcefully throw the mug into the sink, splattering even more coffee on the other side of the previously clean kitchen, then rip down the paper towels, all the while yelling and cursing like a sailor and stomping around like a maniac, waking up my household and sending my husband rushing into the kitchen to see what the hell is going on” kind of livid.

I may have overreacted.

It was one of those moments where my true self was so mad it wouldn’t even let my false self try to calm her down. I picture my true self sucker punching my false self and knocking her out and continuing the tantrum from zero to mach 30 in under half a second. I was completely out of control for approximately 12 seconds before my husband was able to look me in the eye and laugh at me as I was so close to tears, thus causing me to laugh at myself for being completely ridiculous. Those 12 seconds were completely terrifying, and yet oddly liberating.

My voice is hoarse now from screaming so loud about spilled coffee on an otherwise perfect morning.

I don’t know where that anger came from.

I don’t really care.

THE END.

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