Righteous indignation is my favorite emotion. I can stay high for days on that shit, especially if I believe I’m defending someone I care about. Standing up for myself is fun, but grabbing a lance, jumping on my bicycle, and pedaling at full speed toward a friend’s enemy is a moment I can mainline.
(I’m afraid of horses, so I joust by penny-farthing.)
But I wish I were more forgiving. It’s as though Irish rage and Italian vengeance make up most of my DNA. The rest is paranoia and snarkiness. Wouldn’t you love to hang out with me?
Today I addressed an unkind remark that someone made to a buddy on Facebook. My buddy reacted with understanding and serenity toward the author, but I went a smidge Medieval. I didn’t attack the author, just the type of remark. I honestly believed I was doing it for my friend, but my bud said not to worry about it. She had forgiven Ms. Totally McWrongerson (possibly not her real name) and called the remark “a bad use of words.”
I tend to cry bullshit when people forgive others. I stamp and shake my fists, spittle flying, while others shrug. Maybe I should work on this part of my character, but I enjoy jousting too much.