I think people misjudge my patience. They think I have some.

I enjoyed today’s holiday by working for eight hours. It’s a delight to be me. Noon-ish, I came home to check e-mail. Oh yeah, and eat lunch. Well, no e-mail. There’s a shock. [sarcasm]

Sent an e-mail, looking for a response. Collapsed into bed, as I’m the world’s biggest whiner and I have a mild headcold. An hour later, checked e-mail. Nothing.

Impatience turned to irritation at this point. I recognize that this is my red flag, my warning sign, my trigger point. I realize that whatever happens after the point that I go from irritated to hurt/furious should just not be done, but… the trouble is, by that time I’m too hurt/furious to see it.

And the damage is done.

So, in my hurt/anger I get snotty. I called him, with my call going to voicemail for the who-knows-how-many-th call in a week - and at this point, it really got to me. Old baggage from what’s-his-name reared its ugly head and I left some kind of snotty voicemail for him.

Don’t really remember what I said.

No call tonight. Show of hands for all who are surprised:

[Bueller? Bueller?]

I would be a terrible dog on a leash, I swear. I imagine that once put on a leash, I’d be the dog stupid enough to chew through his own neck to free himself.

My dad used to say to me (in jest, of course) “When God gave out brains, you thought He said trains, and said ‘no thanks, I’ll wait for the next one.’”

Maybe he wasn’t far off after all!

Deep breath in, deep breath out,

michelle