Wes and I are really tearing through the 3rd season of Lost. We watched four episodes last night, so vexed were we by the pivotal plot turns. As a result, we went to bed rather late and I proceeded to demand a back rub because apparently it was Wes’ fault that we were going to bed so late. I might have mentioned something about walking the dog and Chinese food and laundry, I’m not sure, sometimes the Crazy, it is too much.
Regardless, Wes obliged and I was able to execute the rest of our nighttime routine in peace because justice had been served. Throughout our marriage, the harsh mirror that is my spouse has revealed that I have a pervading need for justice (or rather, what I consider justice in my twisted Erika-brain). If I were to really consider the source of most of my anger, I would say it is from a feeling of miscarried justice in the world.
Even as a child I demanded justice. If I was being punished for misbehavior you can bet buttons to bowlers I got my brother in trouble as well so that everything was even. As a teenager, I was pulled over by a sheriff once because I was driving 63 MPH in a 40 MPH zone. I very rightly deserved that $200 ticket. I was still enflamed, however, by a burning sense of having been wronged because while I was handing the officer my license and registration I witnessed a great many people speeding away merrily with nary a ticket in the world. As an adult I once crushed a perfectly fine loaf of Sourdough bread because I found out that someone was responsible for deeply hurting Wes and there was nothing I could do about it.
This quest for justice makes things difficult, however, because as my father so eloquently used to say, “Life’s not fair”. It’s true, it’s not. Sometimes things happen that shouldn’t. It’s just that dang it, if I can’t seem to come to peace with that.
I’m not really sure what to do about this. I’m pretty sure that the constant rage and frustration can’t be good for my health. It wasn’t so bad when I was younger because I could just start swearing and eventually I’d feel better (I was a huge fan of the F-word). I swore so heartily that a man renowned among his family and friends for being a man of crude words once asked me to tone it down a little. Now, since giving up profanity as best I can, I’m considerably lacking a cathartic outlet.
As I’m guessing you can tell, I’m a bit ticked about something today. I won’t discuss details other than to say that at times I fear that I will never be able to do what is necessary without it turning into a struggle. Like a fly trapped in a jar I’ll spend the rest of my life hurling myself against perceived injustices to no effect. I could just give up but that’s not a viable option for a hot-blooded Latina who enjoys raising her voice when incensed (either positively or negatively).
I was pondering the predicament of what to do with my frustration when I came across something completely different: A man with a dead parrot.
And you know what? It worked. For sure, Monty Python is a better option than swearing.