I'm afraid I've become mature.
Well, mature-er.
My friends and loved ones have been noticing the disturbing signs of change for a while. "You're always working," they say. "I know Friday nights are tough for you, but..." they wheedle. "You've mellowed," they point out.
Mellowed. Like some sort of food product left in the cellar too long; I've probably also gotten stinkier, but that's for another post. This mellow, thing, though - I don't like it. I used to have an edge! I was so angry about ridiculous things! I used to hurt my throat yelling when we went out at night, and then, to rest my voice, I would go climb a tree or run around the block. For years, Gerard was sure that his death would be directly related to me yelling at some burly stranger and him having to defend me.
Lately, though, I've given up on aggressively stating my opinions about where large strangers should be sitting (not on the subway steps!) or standing (not in the doorway, fool!). Maybe it was becoming a teacher, or maybe it was just me getting older (although, no matter how many times I tell my students that I am astonishingly, creakingly old, I am not really in the vicinity even of middle-agedness), but my attempts to correct people's unacceptable behaviors have become much more didactic, and less rageful and insane. Because I have not entirely given up on having OPINIONS, Gerard still slightly fears the wrath of strangers, but he no longer believes that I am going to get him beaten with clubs.
The other day, I watched a car blow through a stop sign on our quiet, residential street. Before mellowing, I might have jumped into the crosswalk in front of this oncoming car and screamed at him about his need for caution, the beauty of rules, and how I hope he likes going to hell for running over people's children. Now that I've aged into a soft, buttery camembert, though, I instead saw this car coming, stayed safely on the sidewalk, and, as he drove by, said, "Stop Sign." Definitely with a period on the end - not an exclamation point or dead children of any kind. I was instructing - teaching! - building better citizens!
While this approach may help protect Gerard's life, it does not seem to help people learn their lessons. The speeding man actually did stop - eight feet past the stop sign - and then he turned to me and said, "Oh, thank you for pointing that out! I totally didn't see that! So helpful!" in the most cutting, sarcastic voice possible.
That's where my edge went -- that guy stole it! He is an Eater of Edges and at this point has taken them from at least fifty people. He's that mean.
The good thing about rage disorders is that, with care and attention, they can be regrown - like a fallow field or a salamander's tail. Speed Man's dickery - because, seriously, he could have killed a child! - was like that first good watering...or salamander's will to live...that may hone my edge back into existence. Standing there, soaking in his healing rays of hate and awfulness, it occurred to me to yell back, "Oh! So glad I could be helpful! Do you also need me to help you find your head - because it's all the way up your ass!"
It occurred to me, but it takes a salamander two or three weeks to grow back his tail (or eyes! or intestines! - salamanders are amazing!). Similarly, it's going to take more than one horrible jerkface to reignite the burning rage that once served as the white-hot engine of my creativity. The possibly-child-killing speed demon escaped that encounter with only a nod, smile, salute from me. I hope he thinks I am a simpleton who just likes naming things I see on my walks ("Stop sign. Tree.") and feels bad for yelling.
In the meantime, I'm going to pump up my lesson plan for speeders with some props. Next time you see me walking down the street with a whiteboard and a child-size dummy covered in blood, trust that I am a pedagogical professional taking an extremely mature and mellow approach to all these jerks with rage disorders.
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