#anger management

Sometime, for a breathless, brief moment in time, the stars are aligned, nothing aches, and life is beyond splendid. A recent reading and book signing event at Rediscovered Bookstore in Boise validated the fact that life gets better with age and I’m damn fortunate to be this old and this happy. And, I’m sober!

The evening started with a “business meeting” with my writing buddy Amanda Turner. As usual, I was late so I dashed into Fork Restaurant balancing my bloated bags of books. As usual, she was early and had ordered red wine, fried asparagus, and onion rings. (This is a true friend.) We gobbled our goodies, planned a writer’s retreat, and dashed to the bookstore. I didn’t have time to worry about my appearance or fret if my chubby cheeks would jiggle as I read.

After sixty years, I’m finally feeling comfortable in my skin; all of it.

I read from my new book Midlife Cabernet and proudly showed the book’s recent Silver Medal for Humor from the Independent Publisher Book Awards program. The attendees included writers, friends, and a few teachers and their students, and they listened politely and laughed and clapped at the appropriate places. After a few questions, I signed books and then the group dispersed to enjoy the downtown festivities. I sold all the books I brought, and my burden was noticeably lighter.

I drove back to Eagle and decided to celebrate the fun evening with a glass of wine at Crush Wine Bar. A group of lively women sat on the patio and offered me a piece of birthday cake. How could I refuse? But this wasn’t any ordinary cake; this masterpiece was a decadent concoction of chocolate, salted caramel, and butter cream frosting. It paired nicely with a bold Cabernet.

I asked to meet the cake chef and was introduced to Lori Renn, owner of My Wicked Whisk Gourmet Cakes and Cupcakes in Eagle. I gave my name and she squealed, “OMG, I’m reading your book!” So, I squealed back, “And I’m eating your cake!” Another friendship solidified through the power of books, dessert, and wine.

I wrote this blog on the patio while the birthday party women laughed in the background and perky music blared from the outdoor speakers. Then I waved farewell and drove home to hug Studley and tell him all about my delightful day. It seemed as if the universe arbitrarily dumped a bucket of bliss over me and I was floating downstream on good vibrations.

Everyone should be as happy, or at least less mad. Society needs an attitude adjustment right now. There is too much angst and anger in the world, especially on the Internet. I refuse to read rabid comments and packaged political pontifications from those on the far left or the far right. The vitriol solves nothing. I don’t know how we got to this level of animosity among total strangers, but I’ll do my best to add a few laughs when and where I can.

On a warm summer night in the conflicted State of Idaho, there was laughter and wine and birthday cake. On the patio, finishing my blog, I imagined blowing out the candles and wished the positive feeling could permeate the airwaves and soften the hearts and minds of all the jerks who spew their online hatred. And, if I could, I’d tell them to turn off the computer, find a peaceful patio, and eat cake.

I can’t forget the image of the young man’s tortured, enraged face as he leaned out the window of his battered car, thrust out his grimy fist with the middle finger raised, and screamed that I was a copulating female dog. He used other words I won’t write, but I think the translation is obvious. I smiled and muttered, “Honey, I’ve been called worse by real men with nice cars.”

I have no idea what caused such a violent, profane action. I was driving along minding my own business, using my turn signal, keeping within the speed limit, obeying traffic signals, and not texting or drinking alcohol. In other words, I was a rare and unique driver on State Street.

Suddenly a car moved close to the passenger side of my car so I quickly looked over, keeping my hands at 10:00 and 2:00 o’clock on the wheel. The window rolled down and the Face of Rage emerged like a scene from a bad horror movie. I haven’t seen such vitriol since the local all-you-can-eat-buffet restaurant ran out of chocolate pudding on Senior Citizen Day. My immediate thought was that I had accidentally run over his drug pusher. That would explain his lack of manners and teeth.

He screamed profanities impugning my very existence and then jerked the steering wheel and screeched down a side street, his dilapidated car belching blue smoke and his threatening finger still pointing out that I was Number One. In an earlier life, I quickly would have maneuvered through traffic to follow the fool, get his license plate number, and report him to the police as a danger to society. I know the right people.

But, the older I get the more I don’t care about losers and their sorry attitudes. It doesn’t bother me anymore, except I keep seeing his mean mug and threatening gestures. I hope he didn’t go and take out his anger on someone else. If a smiling, middle-aged woman driving legally in her SUV could make him that livid, there is no telling how he would react to convenience store clerks if they were out of cheap beer and imitation beef sticks.

I’ll admit to experiencing sporadic, temporary fits of anger about people and circumstances. I regularly gripe when I read or see news reports about the endless wars, the waste of money, evil people who hurt children, and the inept, corrupt politicians. So, as an anecdote to smashing something, I join others who channel that energy to vote, donate time and resources to local charities, and try to live good lives. The angry faces and clenched fists of protestors don’t impress me. The new Pope does, along with positive and lovely people who visit nursing homes, raise handicapped children, plant gardens, tell good stories, and sing songs.

Anger is unattractive and distorts facial features, creating monsters that appear in nightmares. Or, on State Street. Maybe the young man’s ugly face continues to reappear in my memory because he needs affirmation. And an oil change.