I get so much shit, for being nice, pardon my parlance, choosing to take the highroad since there’s less traffic on it, if you will.
I’m amazed how often my cheerful countenance is challenged as though I suffer from some debilitating disease.
It’s just as easy to be nice as it is not to be, yet the latter is more often preferable.
My ex claimed he was unfaithful because he was sick and tired of me being so nice. It bored him, he said. Now he lives with a woman that, according to his friends, abuse him without mercy.
Exit Pollyanna, enter, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
Well, be careful what you wish for there sparky.
The day I have to beat you to make you happy, is the day we say good bye, or good riddance in his case.
And for the record, I hurt too easily, like shooting at Bambi. In other words, I’m not a worthy opponent.
The world is angry, disconcerted, uncomfortable in its skin. You feel it everywhere, like it’s covered with a dew of despair. Just this morning, as I was leaving Starbucks, there was a little girl no more than 4, having a major meltdown while her mother was on the phone. She was crying so hard, I thought her head might explode.
“What is it?” I asked, unable to walk by her. “Tell me. What’s got you so upset?”
She stopped wailing, her little chest heaving, not sure what to say. I looked at the mother, oblivious to a strange woman conversing with her offspring.
I said again, “What is it?”
“I miss my daddy,” she said, snot shimmying down her cherry-red nose.
“Where is he that you miss him so?”
“Work, my daddy’s at work.”
“So, won’t he be home later, for dinner?”
She nods yes.
All this kid wanted was for her mom to get off the damned phone to pay attention to her. You didn’t have to be Dr. Spock to figure that one out.
I smile at the mother, even though, smacking her would have been much more satisfying.
“You’re so nice,” she whispers, covering her phone. “Thanks for shutting her up. I could hardly hear.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, just shaking my head, before taking the next left on the highroad.