Despite the anger that festers inside me towards my job, my town, and the frustration that I encounter in the constant process of being a parent, I have come to the realization that my most frequent objects of ire are of a more inanimate nature.
I am fighting a non-stop battle with the unresponsive, the car door that won’t shut, the spoon that falls on the floor, and the coffee cups that spills. These are the demons that poke at my otherwise stoic state, driving me to mumble and curse the stupidity of the pillow as it slides from the sofa that I am straightening.
I trip over toys and run out of milk. I grow irksome.
The beauty of allowing something so trivial to stop me in my tracks, pissed at the world and teetering on the verge of causing unforgivable havoc, is that it is a release. Pillows don’t fight back. They let you pick them off the floor in one fell swoop and call them a jackass bladder of cotton, maybe shake them a few times, and toss them back to the sofa from which they came without so much as a wry look. Car doors slightly ajar take a swift hip-check and close without another sound. You can put as much umph into that hip as you want, you can even use your ass, and the door does not argue. It knows that it was wrong and deserves to be punished, and it takes it quietly.
Obviously, these matters are not important on any scale of value, but they are the fodder of the daily grind, and if left unchecked they will just be kindling to whatever real fire burns inside you. Sometimes it’s good to let a little match burn (and if that little match won’t light, try calling it a “stupid clown cousin to a toothpick” and throwing it with over-dramatic emphasis onto the ground. It works just as well).