My daughter came home late Saturday night. She’s a few days shy of her twenty first birthday, working as a waitress as she prepares for her last year of college and big move to the great state of California, her dreams taking shape on the horizon. I go to bed early but get up when baby girl comes home. She’s grown in most senses of the word, but I still like to smooth her hair and we pretend that even though she towers over me, I can still tuck her in. It’s an unspoken charade and she’s a good sport about my urge to nurture.
On Saturday, at almost midnight, coming off a full week of slinging Mahi and margaritas for fans and anglers of Big Rock Fishing Tournament, Ryann came into the house in full tilt story mode, accessorized by cell phone video footage. A customer had gone wiggy because the kitchen ran out of ribeye. The man cursed and flailed about, threatening the wait staff and manager. He hurled insults and accusations, inviting everyone in a tri-state listening area to (rhymes with duck,) themselves. The police were called as his family sat at a table, onlooking the trouble, ice melting in drinks, silverware unused, menus flopping limp in their hands. The rest of the restaurant rubbernecked, mouths agape at the spectacle.
“Why would someone go that crazy over a ribeye?” Ryann asked. “He was shoving people and yelling.” Even after the cops came, the rant continued, a spray of expletives showering the parking lot as his wife and young children hung their heads in the walk of shame toward their SUV.
Ryann was both rattled and confused by the situation. She flipped the emotional coin back and forth – heads – this could have accelerated and gone way worse – tails – how immature to be unable to manage a protein disappointment.
It’s hard to know what rests under the surface of this incident. Does he have anger issues? Did he take too much or too little of his medication? Does he need red meat to feel whole as a person? Had he and his wife had a disagreement? Had he lost his job or a parent or received soul crushing news? Did a series of unfortunate events culminate to climax as the proverbial ribeye that shattered the camel’s vertebrae?
Whatever the cause, Mr. Steak goes down, recorded on video, as part of history. Words and actions, once delivered, become the transcript of life – even when you apologize or attempt to regroup or plead not guilty in front of the magistrate, they remain etched in the stone tablet of time.
I grew up in a family of anger experts. It was used both casually and with intention. There were fights. People made scenes. The floorboards were a landmine of eggshells that we tiptoed around, often incapable of seeing or avoiding the translucent pieces. Throwing a fit or “raring at someone” was a badge of courage rather than arrogance, bonus points if quick-witted sarcasm was used as an accessory weapon. It took me a long time to filter out this emotion and behavior, supplementing in better, healthier choices. Sarcastic pissy can be the most familiar go-to when things get heated. With fight, flight, freeze, and fawn as common choices in conflict, fight fits many a fist like a well-worn boxing glove.
The truth that I’ve uncovered as I age is — I don’t relish the fight, especially with those I hold close. Time is too important to me to be caught up in some twisted pursuit of personal justice. I’ve raised hell over things less important than an entrée and in reflection, I feel regret and shame. It’s still hard at times. Feeling right is a spinner that can make one dizzy with desire. But is it worth it? Does the cost amortize the value?
And, what about the wide receiver? How do we counter when hard things come our way? I’m exploring extending grace when others react harshly. If someone is tailgating me and riding their horn, (in real time or metaphor land,) I have it within my reach to pull off the road and let them pass. I can release those who don’t like me or unfriend me or are snarky behind my back because we are all dealing with our own struggles. Life can be rough and if it takes two to tango — I can sit one out. Interrogating reaction and emotion might be a good self-centering practice. If running out of ribeye involves the police, perhaps there’s more at stake than steak.
Years ago, I was preparing to deliver a post lunch keynote to a group of North Carolina educators. Superintendents, administrators, and principals were gathered for a state-wide conference. These highly educated, bright people assembled in a beautiful hotel meeting space to exchange ideas and share trusted secrets.
I was so excited to speak to this group. If I had a personal label, it would read North Carolina grown. I am a product of the public schools, school bus number five, the county library, and the University of North Carolina system. I am eternally proud and grateful for the access key that these establishments provided me, allowing me the chance to unlock my potential and build a house on a solid foundation.
Following lunch, there was a short business meeting for the organization. I picked at the graham cracker crust of my cheesecake, excited about my turn to address the group. Then, the room erupted, disagreement turning to heated conflict. I don’t remember the exact deets, but it was uncomfortable. The timing and placement of the conversation wasn’t appropriate. People weren’t handling themselves well and tempers were arcing. My heart ached with disappointment, and I felt the mounting tension of being a motivational speaker when your audience is fixing to have a smack down.
An older woman at a back table rose to her feet. She was tall, and it took a moment for her to unfold her body. She rose in sections, like an extension ladder. She stood quietly at full length until the remarks cooled around her and then she began to talk. She spoke of choosing a battle over securing free lunch for needy children in her district. She fought the board of education, the PTA, and the state of North Carolina, and she won. “And, it was worth it,” she said. “I decided that was the anthill that I was willing to climb and die on.” She went on to challenge the group to consider a unified approach toward solving their conflict, lest they divide and suffer, losing the chance to work toward a greater good. The overarching point that I took away from her parable was that there’s a time to fight — make sure it’s worth it. She then retracted her ladder legs and sat down.
The mood shifted in the room and the path was made for me to take the stage, although the lasting message didn’t come from me, instead it came from a person in the back with a simple lesson of ants and hills.
It seems that our world is ill equipped to handle differences, especially when we don’t get what we have deemed essential to our very existence, like a Saturday night ribeye. I guess we all have our moments and reasons. Perhaps Mark Twain said it best, “If your only tool is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail.”
There are times when glue just might do the trick.
Excellent, as usual! Wise words around an anthill. Well said!
I love the Mark Twain one, “ If your only tool is a hammer….” I’ve seen that so many times in my life too!
I’ll bet that Mr. Steak just lost $$$$$ in the Big Rock tourney!
Such great thoughts, as usual…. You don’t disappoint!