“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day.”-The Mama’s and The Papa’s
I should know better by now. Yet I continue to to make the same mistake again and again. I must stop leaving my house on Mondays.
I think I’m being smart. I’m the queen of avoiding any kind of interaction with other human beings. So, you see, I like to go into the antique shop that my husband and I own ( yes, the haunted one) on Monday because we are CLOSED. I can work on my displays without the torturous hassle of pesky conversation and faux politeness on my part. That is also the day I do my errands around town. I live in a very small town. In fact, I’ve lived here my whole life. It doesn’t even phase the natives to walk up to me and tell me exactly what they think about one (or all) of those three H’s of horror…haunting, homeschool or housewife.
It’s not just the natives, either. It’s the touristy folks who come to town because they saw us on Syfy. Some people are super cool, but unfortunately, it’s the super UNcool ones that convinced me to do the homeschool/housewife thing. What is it about me that makes people think they can just say anything to me and my family, no matter how hurtful or rude, as if we have no feelings? I guess I didn’t get the memo about how telling your story on a 43 minute television show automatically takes away your rights to feelings or emotion.
So, Monday, Monday. Why did I think this one would be any different? I was scolded, in front of my son, in a busy McDonald’s by a hungry native for a change in our hours of operation at our store. Yes, the change was made because I stopped working there for that whole homeschool/ housewife thing, leaving the shop short on staff. I admit, I was miffed at this gentleman who had no idea nor did he care about me or my family. He just knew our hours inconvenienced him, and he was gonna let me know it! Well, he did. He let me know it. Instead of staying and ordering food, we left without even ordering my fries OR my son’s shake.
Next stop, our local market where I was given quite the backhanded compliment by geriatric native (“Oh, honey! I love your hair! The way you had it on that tv show looked so awful. That color you had was terrible. It looks much better now!) Gee. Thank you? So, I came home and did what any normal red blooded American girl would do. I took a nap. Whoever said “Sleep is the best meditation,” is a genius.
I woke up realizing I was giving away too much of my strength to people who have no importance whatsoever to me or my family. I get mad, sad, hurt and pout and why? Because of the actions of a few? I could get 20 compliments in a day and one critic who wants to be rude to me just to get his jollies, and I will focus on the rude critic every time. Why is it so easy to give all your energy to mean people, and so difficult to take a compliment from a perfectly lovely person. Why focus on the meanie and not the lovely? Yep. Time to change. Time to be a duck.
I had a friend named Alison. The Lord took her home way too soon. She was young, vital, and very successful in an industry dominated by men. She worked her way to the top. She was called names, thrown under the bus, blamed for mistakes she didn’t make. It was so unfair. Yet she still became Vice President of the corporation where she worked. The same place she put up with all that bullying for all those years. I asked her one day,”How do you tolerate it?” I was surprised to hear her answer, “Be a duck.” The look on my face must have been a crazy one, because she laughed and then explained. “Duck’s feathers are weather proof. Rain and anything else wet and icky just rolls right off of them. Those hateful words are just the wet and icky rain, and I’m a duck. You gotta be a duck.”
So bring it on, Small Town, USA. Hit me with your best shot. You’ll never get to me. I’m a duck.