In my life, it's rare for someone to be openly, unambiguously rude, but I can think of some events:
*Belmar. My spouse and I are walking in a conservative town in New Jersey, and we are holding hands. We smile at a middle-aged man who refuses to volley with a smile of his own. In fact, his face expresses repulsion; his eyes seem to say, Leave my town. But there aren't any words in this exchange--so he has plausible deniability.
*The loonie friend of a friend. He repeatedly talks over me at a wedding, then informs me that his alma mater is becoming "too liberal." Yes, he says, he voted for Trump, but is Biden such a compelling alternative? (Here, I excuse myself, and I go off to breathe quietly in the restroom for several minutes.)
*The strangely hostile neighbor. My nutty co-owners of a particular back road occasionally post amusing notes to our email group. One guy might have weirdly passionate thoughts about the volume of acorns dropping from the trees. Or a mom might want to give away a large, unsightly lava lamp from 1972. Most people allow these emails to float by quietly (which seems like a normal response). But one special neighbor sends barbed, insulting replies, and she "copies" half the town of Maplewood. "You're having an acorn problem???? DO TELL! TELL ME MORE!!!!!!" "That's quite a lamp you're offering, but it's NOT FOR ME. I'M GOOD!!!!!"
Some might recommend Christian forbearance and a breezy "live-and-let-live" approach. That's not me. I stitch the names of my enemies into my quilts. I wait for apologies. I keep my grudges in my heart, like little friends--and I think this is healthy. It seems perverse--and exhausting--to turn the other cheek.
Your middle name, "Defarge"? Always looking for a new quilt....
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