I'm a woman of very little mystery.
Everyone knows exactly how I'm doing. I sigh audibly when I'm relieved. I bawl when I feel sad. I squeal when I'm happy, and I hug way too long when I'm in love.
In short, my feelings are irrepressible.
And for a long time, I felt like transparency was a strong suit of mine. It seemed to me that being bold enough to express myself was a feather in my cap, particularly as a songwriter. (We're expected to be a touchy-feely bunch of people, right?)
But this week, I started to wonder if maybe I shouldn't at least get a handle on one damaging emotion:
On Tuesday, a particularly miserable customer came into my restaurant. He struck up a conversation with a friend at the bar, where they began insulting me while I was right behind them. I listened to them talk about me for a few minutes, growing increasingly enraged. Finally, I snapped. I yelled out to them. They were taken aback, so they changed positions in the restaurant. At which point, I followed them, and continued barking at them. Unsurprisingly, they left shortly after.
I felt invigorated by my righteous indignation for about an hour. But then, I became exhausted by it. Unlike my other emotions--joy, sadness, relief--anger had deflated me, and also distracted me. I was uninspired to work for the rest of the night. I was not plugged into my kids. I was unable to write music. And I was hardly able to sleep.
In short, it was a complete misuse of time and energy.
Reader, anger--as good as it feels in the moment--is a giant waste of our lives. I know I've had this revelation before, and I'm sure I'll have it again. But I feel like the more I acknowledge how terrible of an emotion it is, the less likely I'll succumb to it in the future. Besides, there are far more beautiful emotions for a woman to succumb to...like this beautiful, midwestern overcast sky. I'll see you next Monday. -Em