Family, the environment, writing—these are my life passions. So why do my mini-passions, not the biggies, cause my blood to curdle?
Let me clarify. Gum on the sidewalk can wreck my day. No really. I’m not sure what it is about this particular transgression that makes me want to gnaw down trees, but one sighting of secreted Bubble Yum generates more emotional TNT than 137 telemarketers and fifteen ATM fees. Maybe it’s because we have really nice brick sidewalks on campus. Or maybe not...since we also have little green men in hazmat suits who continually scrape the sh…eh, alien crap off the mortar. (NOTE: We actually have facilities personnel in golf carts and khakis, but that sounds far less impressive.)
And while I’ve never succumbed to road rage, I frequently fantasize about chasing down those chronic blackguards who toss cigarette butts out of car windows. I want to flip their cars—or at least flip them an eagle or an owl (a.k.a. the bird). Is this a big deal—heck no. Cigarette butts are a whopping inch long in most cases. SMALL! Do you remember Lady Byrd’s “Clean Up America” campaign? The most memorable ad featured a Native American crying after someone threw a load of crap on the road. I’m pretty sure that trash that flew into the weeping man’s face was a full happy meal—not a teensy, tiny bit of used filter. So why do I get so worked up about something I wouldn’t even have noticed if the blasted fool in front of me hadn’t decided to personally wreck my day by making me a witness to the butt tossing? Again, beats the heck out of me (both mentally and physically).
And spitters… OMG. What genetic defect makes anyone think it’s okay to hawk up the most vile substances in the human body and deposit this biological asbestos any ole place?? Is this some vile method of marking one’s territory? A secret mating ritual performed to entice dung beetles?
Just to be clear, none of the above offenses affect me on any profound level, even though all perpetrators should be forced to clean up their mess—with their tongues. So why the overblown reaction? Maybe it’s a psychological thing (ya, think?). Perhaps venting over small things helps me deal with life’s real issues. Or maybe it’s the universal understanding that a few individuals don’t have the right to crap up the world the rest of us try to keep pretty.
Or maybe it’s like chocolate—you may have noticed, I have a chocolate analogy for everything. You can resist an entire fudge cake, but a bag of tiny little kisses will torment you until you consume every last one.
What about you? What mini-passions melt your chocolate?
Copyright © 2012 by Robin Weaver