Well, hey. We know each other but we don’t really know each other, so let’s get down to it, yes?
Yesterday, it was realized that I am passive aggressive.
It was also realized that this is quite common in women, as we’ve been raised to assume a certain posture, a certain persona, a certain portrait that smiles and blinks and nods, and never quite says precisely what she feels.
Here is why this is hard for me to swallow: I never wanted to be the woman who says precisely what she feels.
There is a woman in my life who says precisely what she feels and she makes me cringe, because she is unruly and unkind, and she once told me I should consider eating more salad, because bread was doing nothing for my hips. But perhaps I am imagining this? Perhaps she was simply truth telling? I don’t know, I’m the one checking out books about passive aggression at the local library on a Wednesday morning after a particularly tricky conversation with my husband, so I feel I am not qualified to comprehend.
I am here, in the oak-ridden library stacks, and I have just read through the first few pages, no more than an introduction really, and I have found, gracious, I am passive aggressive on every account there is.
But here’s the great news! I have a project now. I’m going to fix it, as if it’s a clogged toilet, a still-needs-to-be-hung-frame in the foyer, and I promise to let you know how it’s going, but can I first say this?
Passive aggression, I have read, stems from a fear of anger, a fear of conflict, a fear of upsetting the fruit basket.
And girlies, I do not know any one of us who does not – from time to time – fear upsetting the fruit basket.
And so! To the passive aggressors in us all: we can do this, right? We can be both truth and kind, can’t we? We can say what we feel, can’t we?
I will let you know. I’m on chapter two.