Just This Once, Mom. Please?

Because my mother taught me good manners, I was unable to haul off and hit a co-worker today. On a good day, this particular colleague has a bad habit of charging up behind a person too early in the a.m., and I have an intensity of character that does not invite an early morning invasion of workspace. Today was not a good day, and I so wanted to wind up and let'er have it that I nearly cocked my fist (note: my tongue was also sharpened and ready to let fly). But sadly, there was no trashy girl fight in the office and I lost out on the primal release of deep irritation by way of scratching and kicking. Instead, I sucked back two cupcakes and had a highly productive morning.

So what stopped me from busting out and throwing knives?  Well, apart from keeping up appearances, I have my standards. That is, I have my mother's standards for getting along and her voice is clear: When you go out in public, be polite, be nice, and help with the dishes. In other words, no hitting, no biting, no scratching.  File your nails, keep your complaints to yourself and suck it up (or back, as the cupcake may be). Makes sense to me - most of the time.

Obviously, my mother's lesson is basic, useful and appropriate. To succeed as social beings, we must often put our instincts in check - we must all, on occasion, set aside minor and insiginificant irritations in the name of getting along. Killer bees beware: If we cannot find this restraint within ourselves, then we are the 'hothead' in the room.  We are the loose cannon, the one with the temper, the intolerant beast that everyone sidesteps and talks about later. Clearly, courtesy and diplomacy earn us points on the social acceptability scale. Repeat mother's mantra in times of need and all will be well. How else, my cool-headed compadres, do you think I scored my morning cupcakes?

But where does this well-practiced suppression of impulse leave our unspent frustration? Somehwere, somehow, do we all not experience ill-timed erruptions that follow the long, low rumblings of exposure to our workmates? Most commonly, we excuse our inappropriate displays with, "I lost it. I couldn't take it any more and I just lost it on the bitch." And then guilt tortures us - the guilt of knowing that we broke the code of social decorum and, much worse, the guilt of knowing how disappointed our mother would be. She's not a bitch, she's just freaking loud, immature and obtrusive (that she, by the way, is your co-worker and *not* your mother). Coming unhinged is not cool and feels like a confirmation of failure - yours and your mother's.

So back to this morning with a question (or two): Did throwing a cupcake into the pit satisfy the gods? Has the cheap girl-on-girl fight fantasy been sufficiently held back? I think not. While mother would have been pleased and the day unfolded as it should, the gators remain unfed and I could use some bait. Now don't get me wrong. To launch torpedos this morning would have been off the mark of anything near acceptable. My poor target knew nothing of my ire, nor should she.  I felt like a bear this morning and she was the first to get in my way. Not her fault. But what to do about this fantasy of mine?

Now that I am no longer out in public, though, I ought to blow up that punching bag, hit the gym for some cardio, or crank up some raunchy tunes. But even in private, these healthy outbursts of my darker self feel embarrassing and oddly unnecessary.  This is silliness, I think. This morning's urges have dulled and I've more than burned off those cupcakes, so why would I deliberately flail about and punch a bag of air? It's over.

...or not. 

Truth be told, the very thing we would often like to do, is not the thing we can do.  And it sucks.  So, for now, the pit remains deep, the gators await their meal, and I carry on.  Maybe tomorrow will be the day I unleash - or not.  The fact remins that my need to appear sane (and more than a little in control) is greater than my need to let loose.  I am 'better' than my instincts.

For now.