Woman of No Mystery

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

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