I’m not very good at keeping my mouth shut. It’s a constant effort and a perpetual self-examination–a check I routinely perform before I open my mouth to offer my opinion. Will what I have to say serve any function beyond making me internally chuckle at my clever turn of phrase or rendering me positively giddy at the idea that somebody (me) finally got that son-of-a-bitch? Is it nice? Is it any of my business? I ask myself these questions, and I’m aware of what I’m doing (and of what I’m about to say) most of the time. On the whole, I try to do the next right thing. I try to be kind in the things I say, especially when I’m talking to someone I care about.
Having said all that…there are moments when I could give a rat’s ass whether what comes out of my mouth is at all constructive or kind. Sometimes, I’ve kept my trap shut for WAY THE HELL TOO LONG, and I am positively bristling with the need to say SOMETHING that makes the idiot in front of me stop in their tracks–mouth open in shock–with no idea how to respond to the sudden crapton of shit that has come raining down on their unsuspecting head.
I keep my mouth shut until I don’t, and lately, the mechanism that is supposed to keep it in check has begun to feel increasingly worn and faulty. I catch myself thinking like a teenager–just sitting around WISHING for somebody who needs a good verbal beating to stand in front of me and ask for my opinion because, by golly, I’ll give it, damn the consequences. See what I’m saying? Teenager brain. Test me, bitch.
I play out the whole conversation in my head. Their devastation. My astounding victory. The moment when everyone who knows both of us looks at me like I’ve taken up kicking kittens for sport (even though my fantasy targets are never unequipped for verbal sparring and could certainly hold their own). The following moment when I realize that I don’t care what they think or how their opinions could effect our relationship down the road because damn it, I finally got to say what needed to be said.
It concerns me a bit, this pent up aggression. I have no excuse for it. My life really is wonderful aside from the fact that I don’t see my husband enough and I worry about the kids. Other than that…nada. Maybe I’m just crossing over into hormonal hell; it is about that time. On some level, I kind of hope that’s the explanation, but if I had a guess, I’d say I’m making a different transition, one that has been made by generations of pissed off women before me.
I’m becoming someone who will tell you exactly what I think because you need a freaking clue and I just don’t give a fuck.