“A Christmas Carol” is one of my favorite films. I am partial to the Patrick Stewart version, but I’ll settle for any of them. Every Christmas, I plan it out so the first ghost appears on the screen at exactly midnight to make the experience more realistic. Recently, I’ve realized I do this because deep inside I long for a Ebeneezeresque transformation. I want to wake up and be cured of my rampant pessimism, distrust for nearly all humans, and anger issues. But, I’d be willing to just have one ghost show up and rid me of my severe temper, which has been flaring up even more than usual of late.
It’s like my “Fight or Flight” response has been reduced to just fight. In the last two months, I have gone into a fit of cursing so loud that a mother covered her child’s ears and ran the other way, leapt from the shadows and threw a bourbon in person’s face earning me the moniker Psycho Ninja Bitch, vowed to call PETA and kick someone’s ass over a bird incident, and thrown my Derby hat in the water because my horse didn’t win.
Then, the other day I was walking my dogs past a house where the owner often threatens to kill any animal that comes into his yard and makes contacts with his beloved Yorkies. He has taken several people to court because their disgusting hounds have found their way onto his pristine property. As, we walked by, his yippy mutts ran back and forth barking. Doc and Rufus didn’t make a peep. The owner turned and looked at me…and I lost it… “Don’t you even think about it, you fat fuck! I am not afraid of you. If you ever even glance at my dogs again, I will fucking kill you. I am not the bitch you want to mess with.” And, it was all captured on the elaborate video camera system he has set up to film intruders.
After this, Frank begged, “Honey, please, get yourself in check. You're like a loaded gun. People are afraid of you. Hell, I’m afraid of you.”
So, it has become my mission to put out the flame of fury and find another way to deal with conflict. I don’t want to be mean Scrooge. I want to be Scrooge after the visitations who modeled himself on Fezziwig—the kindly boss from his youth who was patient and generous and kind and adored by friends and family and strangers alike, and he threw a fabulous party. No fight, no flight...Fezziwig!
I am not certain how I will accomplish this. Attempt yoga. Maybe meditation. Take ten breaths when I feel like exploding. Perhaps, I’ll get the Serenity Prayer tattooed on the back of my eyelids:
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”
Or maybe I’ll just try Hormone Replacement Therapy.
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