a A few years ago I decided to seek a more “attainable” New Year's resolution: not only challenging and strengthening life, but also smaller to the near-sturdy point. For example, near the end of last year, I decided to stop using my car corners in a life-threatening situation.
If you're wondering what kind of asshole people use horns in non-life-threatening situations, I know it's noise pollution, childish and rude.
At any time, I range from “The Silent Dad of a Movie Set in the 1950s” to “PMDD Jerry Seinfeld.” You know: “When did they start putting these stupid glue bands on the bananas? They are naturally bundled!”, et cetera. And for some reason, I'm the worst in the car. When I turn over, I don't scream at my kids or choose to fight my husband – when I'm alone, I'm alone, there's no one to listen to me other than God and upholstery , not everything will be saved for the car. I get disproportionately angry at strangers texting me when they should realize that the light is green. So I take my very stupid revenge through Honk.
When I shared this with the therapist I was watching, she offered many “helpful suggestions”. (I recently switched from a tough love therapist to the kind that will ally with you for all the extra $150.) Her suggestion is a reality for people who are more annoyed than me. was based on the anger management guidance. It was raised at a Real-Deal Rage Incidents fee. One strategy is to say the word “beep” instead of using a horn. Another person is trying to express your feelings without involving or engaging others (e.g. “I'm late for work, so you didn't use the turn signal.” I'm mad at you! “I'll get out of their car and slap you).
I'm grateful for these non-violent solutions, but I need to encourage you to imagine the most angry people you know. Imagine gently screaming “beep” to themselves after being almost T-boneed by 20s who zoned out while trying to open a third Celsius in the Dodge Challenger. Besides being a bit ridiculous, we can see that it is not possible to give the same satisfaction to the user when deployed.
Shortly after receiving the advice from the therapist, I couldn't apply it, so something exciting happened.
I was on my way to school with my kids and was as late as usual, stuck with the narrow stretches of Franklin Avenue in Hollywood (which I think half of LA should go through during the busiest time of the morning). . The truck parked at a 45-degree angle in the center of the road. Two gentlemen from Coveralls slowly left the truck and began dragging a huge trash can from the car park of a nearby shopping centre.
When I say “slowly”, I mean very cheerful, relaxed and relaxed. Rush Hour Traffic.
I could actually see people in the cars around me going from the usual city residents “Can you believe this?” Like an actor from a local production at Les Misérables, he throws his hands and shakes in despair.
Two full cycles of stoplights passed without moving traffic in either direction. I don't know as our two-way heroes move the trash cans in a zigzag pattern around the car park in the shopping centre, still having fun chatting. Morning show.
What made things better here is the door to a dimly tiny white hatchback where a few cars opened in front of me and popped out of a short, muscular man. And he was mad.
You may have never seen this particular guy before, but you have seen “this guy” before. You know, he appears to have a type that appears to be carved from a turkey, or a bad light realistic tattoo of a toddler on his forearm. The type who went in with the hostess at the Outback Steakhouse as he saw an older couple who came after his first sitting. This is because the type of man who wears a tank top in the winter is built like a lorax shaved with human growth hormone.
This man yelled something to the two waste disposal gentlemen. When they didn't respond, he spinned with a great purpose, heading towards his trunk.
My kids were leaning in the car seat (they are 5, 6, 7 years old. I'm a little more concerned about whether actual violence could be about to unfold, but other stuck-ups. We were able to see the driver doing the same thing. When we appeared in that evening edition of Ktla News and told the Juvédermed Anchor named Kirk what happened, we all were all , I was able to say that I was drawing a picture for the KTLA News edition that night.
The man's fierce little torso disappeared into his little car, where he took root in anger for something, so there was a collective clench. We returned from him to two forgotten trash can wranglers. He seemed even more urgent than before. Despite the fact that they were probably about to be overlaid publicly.
At the moment of tension, the muscular man appeared with an absolutely huge bull.
Well, now we've all been able to relax. Then the real fun began.
“Attention Jakov! Move your fuckin' truck! I'm talking to you, pindix! Move your stupid ass before I do your abuse!”
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I don't know if he is an unfair firefighter, a parade organizer, a hostage negotiator, or what. Maybe he had a bull so he could yell at people in the traffic. That wasn't a problem. He said it “ass” like two separate words, and he yelled it out. This continued for a while. In the true feat of the poem, or improvisation, he never repeated the same brilliant insult twice.
Everyone began to praise and scream. And it rings out, but in the fun it takes, it's a hilarious way that happens when a team wins the World Series. The rubbish twins seemed to notice us all for the first time, and more importantly, they began to fuss. The man's little angry hot dog played the miracle of the big city every day. The man moved the trash truck, the cars advanced, and my kids went to school armed with some brand new words.
As for me, I wasn't cheering as loudly as the others. He wasn't as loud as five years old. I was busy worrying, worried, worried about anger. From the Bullhorn Man, not just from everyone in the other cars, but from me.
I want to be a citizen and mother who maintains a cool head that can help through inconvenient, scary and infuriating people. I wish we were someone who had a great sanctuary of stabilization, comfort, respect and perseverance to others in times of frightening, inconvenient and furiousness. We need those people, peaceful people who wait for things to pass and know they will. I wish I was, but I'm worried that I am not.
sAfter the trash tin excitement, I returned to being a “tough love” therapist. This therapist-on-the-rapist beef was worth the price of eating two copies. But my tough love therapist said it was okay to get mad as long as I had hurt anyone. Usually even numbers. “It's better to hit the pillow than kick the dog,” she said.
It was impossible to try and get angry. It's what you do with a vital feeling. This applies equally to sitting in traffic, being cut side by side for oil changes, or being separated and separated from the world you wish for your children every day.
She said the rage was not unique to me or the specific time and place where we live. We have work to do and people to nurture. And the worst thing you can do is make the worst feelings your short-time teaching principle here. You can certainly choose to cry or start carrying the bull in the car. Or we can realize that new challenges require new coping strategies that do not involve daily ventilation of our anger in front of our children. Obviously fun, but if you don't want to go to the position of a fetus trembling under your futon every night, or perhaps the position of a fetus trembling with a mug shot of glass eyes on the evening news, it's just a lasting It's not a possible method. Then she said something unintentionally devastating about my new haircut.
Beep, beep.
