nearly got into a fistfight this morning

[fflo]

Some woman in a white car behind me, impatient with how long it was taking me to zip into traffic at the turnaround on Packard in front of my vet's, started honking at me. The rear-view revealed that she thought gestures might help as well. I imagine she'd thought I could have made it into the left lane at one interval; I imagine she lacked the ability to imagine that I might want to get into the right lane immediately, as one would if one were taking one's old sick cat to the vet whose driveway is right there. I also imagine that she may be as uptight as suggested by elements of her physical appearance that I refrain from detailing here.

Regardless, I found no difficulty whatsoever getting in touch with my anger at that moment. I did have some difficulty staying in the car and petulantly delaying my subsequent entry into traffic, vs. getting out of the vehicle to walk back and explain to her exactly how much of an asshole she was being, and of what specific varieties. That's when the fisticuffs might have ensued.

Chester didn't seem scandalized in the least that I exhibited a gesture of my own, going with my theory that it's somehow more vulgar to display the middle finger with the thumb sticking out as well.

Lately I've experienced, more than a coupla times, the impulse toward bodily/physical expression of anger. Wonder vaguely, but only vaguely, whether I oughta keep an eye on that. And don't seem to care much that it's only vaguely. Nor whether, or to what extent, the anger might be masking or blocking, or standing in the stead of, something(s) else.

Pretty sure, however, that if I do clock somebody, I'll consider it a matter of concern.

There's a scene in Victor, Victoria in which James Garner, wanting to feel all het, goes into a dive fulla sailors, walks to the bar, and says nice and loud---more to the crowd, silenced by his entry, than to the bartender: "Milk." Poof, he's in the physical fight he was itching for. It's kind of a funny bit, if multiply stereotypical & supportive of the character's homophobia (which the film ultimately doesn't have a problem with, I'd suggest). But I can identify with him there, just now. Only not to prove anything about who I might or might not want to have sex with.

I haven't been in a physical fight of note since I was 20 or so, that I can think of. Not where I fought back, anyway. But I feel just about this close, where "this" ain't much, to wanting to knock the crap out of the next hostile idiot who pops up. Or get it knocked out of me in the attempt, or both, or whatever. And there seem to be plenty of idiot strangers presenting themselves and their hostile idiocies, as if to tell me they're ready to go.

It may be like the part of me who has to remind herself that I shouldn't, cuz I can't, just throw myself onto my hands on the floor in front of me and start walking on them, upside down, just cuz I can feel myself doing it. But I don't think it's much like that. I think it's more like other things.

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I love it when pushy nut-jobs give me the opportunity to express my inner rage without guilt and without compromising any close relationships. And it's beautiful really---I sense or imagine that the misguided asshole's karma will continue to accelerate to the point of spontaneous combustion, while I, on the other hand, have just released a huge load of stuff that had built up, with one exquisitely felt gesture that was totally deserved by its recipient.

In other words, more power to you!

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