On Derby Day 1989, driven by impulse mistaken as true love, I hopped in my ’77 Dodge Aspen wagon and moved from Knoxville to St. Louis. Ultimately this choice would lead to, among other things, the birth of my son Henry. My brief time in that city also brought me the gift of some lifelong friendships.
As a punk with a flattop, finding work in that midwestern city proved challenging. Eventually I landed a server gig at Riddles Penultimate, easily the fanciest restaurant I’d ever waited tables. A memory that stands out sharply is the time my friend and fellow waiter Sue, upon hearing me make yet another bitchy remark about diners, asked, “Do you hate everyone you wait on?”
I’m positive that is not how she worded it, but that was the gist of it. That might have been the first time I became at least slightly conscious of the fact that in my world, being irritated with customers felt like a very natural order of things. I told Sue that Mary, the woman who first trained me in the art of tray carrying and food delivery—this was at a Ramada Inn in Tampa in 1983–modeled the cranky behavior I would adopt, as if disdain were just as much part of the job description as topping off coffee cups.
But it wasn’t really Mary’s fault. I was raised to be angry and suspicious of everyone. Dealing with the hungry public and their oft stupid demands simply turned out to be a good fit for my simmering rage. Every day there were new people to be annoyed with. Until Sue pointed this out to me, I didn’t realize what a sport I had made of mocking patrons.
Though St. Louis is more than thirty years behind me, I never forgot Sue’s observation. On my better days it visits me before I lose my shit. I remind myself that not everyone is out to get me, as I had been daily taught the first eighteen years of my life. I tell myself that whatever stupid question is coming out of someone’s mouth might not feel stupid to them. I attempt to summon patience and compassion. Sometimes I succeed.
Decades of meditation and therapy combined with occasional stretches of psych medication (antidepressants, anti-anxiety pills) eased my anger significantly. Lockdown undid a lot of that. Cue up Elvis singing “Suspicious Minds” on a perpetual loop—I reached a point somewhere in the second year of the covid plague where being around people felt like the worst idea ever. Everywhere I looked I saw idiots. The patience I had slowly developed over the previous three decades seemed to be gone entirely.
Then, a year ago, just months after Omicron began whipping around, a bride—enraged that the pandemic and the weather refused to cooperate with her expectations—had a full on breakdown at the ranch. She was so cruel to me, and her wedding planner was also a bitch with a capital C. Kim and Lena were the straws that broke my back. If I never saw another bride it would be far too soon. I literally shut down the business the day they flipped out on me. I could see no other solution. The thought of ever being around another angry bride or pushy planner was too overwhelming.
I was listening to an interview recently in which three school teachers shared how lockdown has affected young students. A fourth grade teacher said that her kids were, emotionally speaking, acting like second graders. They don’t have conflict resolution skills. They melt down more quickly than pre-pandemic fourth graders did. They’re frazzled.
While I feel bad for the kids, I took some personal comfort from the report. I don’t want to make excuses for my anger and how it bled all over 2022. But knowing I’m hardly alone allows me to move away from self-flagellation and focus on getting back to a place where I don’t feel perpetually on my back foot when interacting with others. My Elder Job as a kooky docent helps with this. I meet all manner of people from all walks of life. Some of them say really stupid shit. Like the woman who stood before me shouting about god. My job description calls for me to be polite to everyone. Or at least not to scream Fuck you get the fuck out of my face. This is good practice. I am rebuilding the emotional equivalent of muscle memory. I am teaching myself to present as neutral times I cannot muster genuine enthusiastic kindness. This is helping.
Last week I wrote about stepping back into my work as a wedding and funeral officiant. This was a decision accompanied by much wincing. To again subject myself to the possibility of another bridezilla felt terrifying. On the other hand, after exploring myriad other options for bringing in a paycheck, the neon lights in my mind refused to stop flashing the truth. I am very good at presiding and also this is a job that pays exponentially more than any other gig I qualify for.
As I built a website to announce my return to the officiant business, there came the part where I assembled a gallery of photos of past weddings. Since 2006 I’ve officiated more than 2,000 ceremonies. The photos revealed what my mind had blocked. As I took in the assembled montage, the faucet of happy memories turned back on. For many, many years I had posted these photos on social media, always accompanied by the acronym ILMJ!— I love my job. And then, in an instant, courtesy of one jerk, that all went away.
The summer Henry was 8, we went to the Pedernales River often. We’d balance rocks, play in the water, bask in nature. One day he got a really bad sunburn. The pain was enough to make him never want to visit the river again. In his mind it was the river’s fault. I had to explain to him that the burn was not due to the river, but rather a combination of the summer sun and my failure to slather him in sunscreen.
I often turn to this memory as a reminder I am at times fast to misplace blame. I remembered the sunburn story again this week as, for the umpteenth time, my ranch foreman came to me and begged me to reconsider hosting weddings. I knew what he was getting at. Of all the things we do to bring in an income here, weddings and memorial services are the most lucrative. Currently, we’re both working multiple gigs to keep the lights on. If only I would hear him out and try again, if only I would let him be the public-face, the day-of dude, we could go back to the way things were when we first started working together: long days fixing things up, caring for the animals, being outside for long stretches, laughing, not running around to piecemeal paycheck gigs.
I succumbed to his protracted campaign a couple of days ago. I did this not with glee and relief, but reluctance and trepidation. I have to figure out what the equivalent of sunscreen is in this situation. Actually, I think I know the answer to that. Judicious Boundaries. Doesn’t that sound like a pretentious band name?
Last weekend I hosted a group of women who paid a pretty penny—not to me—to attend a fiber workshop here. The woman who had organized the event, to whom I had offered rock bottom rates, and who made a mint off the workshop, was a pain in my ass from the get-go. Every time she wanted something from me, she expected a swift answer. When it came time for her to pay and send in the contract, she would disappear until I threatened to cancel the event. She defended her tardiness by explaining she is a very busy woman. I replied that I, too, am a very busy woman and my time is just as precious as hers.
The night before the event, she was to drop off the instructor, who flew in from New Mexico and was staying in the tiny cabin. The plan was for her to text me when they were on their way. The evening stretched on with no word from her. I finally texted to say I was going to bed. She replied she would be right over. I instructed her to text me once she was in the gate. Instead, she pulled up to the main house, the private residence where two of my roommates were already asleep. And then? She laid on the horn. This on the heels of some very passive aggressive emails. She really was a fucking nightmare.
I took this as a chance to practice my new Judicious Boundaries. I let her know swiftly and sans cushioning that I was done with her, and that our agreement for future workshops was off. I did not fall for her gaslighting, which is a huge win for me. I saw that she was the problem. I eliminated the problem.
I was aided in my self-advocacy by calling up another story that helps me through these times when I feel frustrated with humanity. My roommate Chad was in third grade when his mother took him for counseling. He was being bullied at school and had reached a breaking point, resulting in some altercations. The therapist he spoke to, Dr. Jackson, had a message for him, one he’s carried for more than half a century, one I turn to whenever I feel the urge to flip my lid on people like the dumbass woman I had to deal with last weekend. In essence, Dr. Jackson said to young Chad, “Look, there are a lot of really stupid people in the world. You happen to be ever so slightly more intelligent than them. Unless you learn to cope with that, you will have a very frustrated life.”
Perhaps a rather large concept for a child to absorb. Still, I think it would be great if more people got this message early on. The foundation for not taking shit personally. I doubt I will ever master it. But I’m going to keep practicing.
NOTES:
Yes, that’s right. I am hosting weddings again. And I’m offering ridiculously cheap rates to the first ten couples that book. TinyTRanch.com
On Feb 25th I’m hosting the inaugural Tiny T Tiny Flea Market. If you want to be a vendor, message me.
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