Wrath of… Me

I know someone who missed their flight because Super Shuttle sent a driver who didn’t know where he was going and arrived 2 hours late and was subsequently late picking up everyone else. And he wasn’t bothered by it in the least. He didn’t even call to complain.

Yet I was seething with rage just hearing the story.

I don’t pretend to be a naturally calm person but I sometimes feel like when I’m getting screwed (or getting helically wrapped around an axis as they say on the Big Bang Theory) I simply cannot remain calm. Airlines, in particular, have become a source of rage for me, but most recently it has become stores that bear a striking resemblance to airlines: I’m looking at you, Kate Spade.

My grad school adviser in history once said aloud around me that she wondered what kind of person would write a letter to a company or television station to register their displeasure. She theorized that it was old women whose children were all grown up and needed something to fill their time. I said it was me: a 25 year old single girl who was f#%(ing pissed off that the Hallmark Channel had the audacity to take off “Matlock.” That’s right, I wrote letter about them taking off “Matlock.” And guess what they show now? That’s right, “Matlock.” You’re welcome, America.

My reasoning was that how are people going to know we’re dissatisfied that they replaced “Matlock” with “Little House on the Prairie” if no one tells them? How will Kate Spade know they have terrible customer service if I don’t inform them of that? I advocate telling people when you’re happy, too, like when you really appreciate a cupcake flavor or exceptional customer service when I call Disney’s reservation line.

I’m not all bite and bitch and yet when people I know need someone to get angry for them, I’m the first person they look towards. In a previous job, I was the person who nagged publishing companies for invoices until they sent them, I wrote the complaint letters about faculty who made unreasonable demands on the dark room staff to teach skills they were supposed to cover in their courses, and I barter for fake designer bags on street corners in Italy, prompting one friend to marvel at how I could be a bitch in not one but two languages.

When people need their dirty, bitch work done I get to be the bad guy. And, honestly, I kinda enjoy it. Oh, and running provides ample time to arrange one’s arguments and gather thoughts before the ensuing battle.

Bring it on, world. Bring. it. on. (insert spirit fingers here)

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