Proof of Semi-Maturity

When I was young my father used to say of me that I did not suffer fools well. He was an expert on this since his mother was of similar personality. Now she was an alcoholic so some of her shortness with idiots was liquor induced and mine was just pure impatience.

This tendency to be blunt is something my sisters really disliked. Once while waiting in a very long line to get on the only down escalator at Selfridges in London I was behind a woman who clearly had a fear of escalators. When her turn came she stood with her foot hovering over the descending steps watching them come and go, one by one without attempting to put her foot down and get to the next floor.

My sister stood with me as we waited behind the phobic. After at least ten treads came and went without any attempt to get on the escalator I did what I always did back then and intervened by loudly saying, “GO!” She did. It made my sister furious and embarrassed. “But she went,” was my defense.

Yesterday I had to take Carter to her barn to pack her tack for a horse show two hours before 30 people were showing up at my house for dinner. While Carter was doing her thing I ran to Trader Joes to buy the three last minute items I needed. As I pushed my arugula filled cart quickly towards the nut section I suddenly was surrounded by three tiny people pushing toddler size carts willy nilly with their mother carrying a fourth child.

The tiny ones with no shopping lists in hands and no real sense of urgency to move through the produce aisle stood like a battalion determined to keep me from getting past them. Although I said nothing, I must have had my “don’t suffer fools well face on.” I looked to the mother to solve my problem. Without any apology for allowing her children to go unsupervised she blamed me for the situation saying, “You should shop online if you don’t like children.”

Quick as a flash so many horrible and cutting responses flew through my brain, but I held back. I easily could have taken this mother down right in front of her children by saying, “I love children, I just hate mother’s who can’t control theirs.” But I didn’t. I could have even said something so over the children’s heads but so biting to the mother that they would not understand why she burst into tears in the car by saying, “Practicing childrearing is not improving for you with each additional child.” But I didn’t.

Instead I stood there patiently, bent down to eye level of the littlest cart pusher, smiled and said, “Look at what a good job you are doing.” With all my might I held back from standing up and looking at the mother and adding, “So much better than your mommy.”

Eventually the tiny ones figured out how to move away and the probably over stressed mother of four, maybe more at home, moved on. I grabbed the needed nuts flew to the checkout and was out the door.

It took every bit of strength I had to leave the store without making some come back, but I did. Just because I have a great response to someone does not mean I have to use it. I guess at fifty-three I am finally beginning to mature, but boy is it hard.