Good Drivers

   car I’ve seen hundreds of stage productions. Musicals, comedies, concerts, dramas, ballets, recitals. Professional and amateur, and somewhere in-between.

     Lots of exposure –to lots of stuff.

    You might assume, then, that I’d make a pretty good arts critic, what with having seen the best and worst stages have to offer.

You’d be wrong.

    I certainly have my favorites –A Chorus Line five times, The Phantom of the Opera, six. And those which I’ve sat through only in justification of the ticket’s cost –The Iceman Cometh cometh to mind. I don’t love every one, but with few exceptions, I like all of them. In each production, I find something to enjoy. I can never fully dis the bands in the house, the actors on stage, the singers under the limelight, the orchestra in the pit. I find some redeeming value in each effort, even if it misses the mark.

 
Same goes for most people I meet.

    Mostly, a good thing.

    Not always.

If you ask ten people, nine and a half would probably tell you that they’re good drivers. Regardless of the number of accidents they’ve been in, contributed to, caused, they’ll swear that they are, nonetheless, good drivers. Likewise, most people claim to be good judges of character. Are often emphatic about it.

    Me, too.

    For the most part.

    On the other hand.

    Not long ago, a woman prophesized that someone would take advantage of me. A particular someone. She suggested that I keep up my guard, that I be cautious.

 
I mulled her warning. She might be right, I concurred. But then I decided that if the person was indeed taking advantage of me, it was my own fault. I’m a big girl and if I can be that easily manipulated, more the shame to me than to the manipulator.

    This philosophy aligns to that universal belief in being a good judge of character. From instinct, experience and interaction, I’ve concluded that this is a good person. It follows easily, then, that she wouldn’t purposefully take advantage of me. I’m relying first on my skill at judging her character, but also in an overarching and sometimes blind belief in the innate goodness of most people. I trust myself. And I am trusting her to prove me right.

    I could be wrong. I’ve seen glimmers to suggest that she’s less than perfect.

    Hmm.

    But I am a really good driver.

 

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Revenge



    Revenge is in vogue. At least by way of the new ABC nighttime soap bearing its name.



    Never mind that the eye-for-an-eye premise from which it stems has been around for as long as time. Or that the show is an admitted rip-off of The Count of Monte Cristo.


    Revenge has come to the Hamptons. And to those of us who may be willing to wait out the plot twists that it will surely require if it is to survive beyond a single season.
    


    Judging by the wait-and-see temper of its reviews, Revenge stands a chance.


    Maybe I’ll watch it.


    Revenge as entertainment is easier for me to understand than its lifelike sister.


    My mom used to say forgive, but don’t forget.


    Doesn’t really sound like forgiving then, but I think it was a cautionary mantra. And unintentionally, I may have taken the credo to heart. Some slights, try as I might, I can’t forget. Especially as a parent, when the mark they’ve hit is my kids. 

    
But revenge? Not for me. Nor do I understand a range of other emotions like jealousy and envy. I don’t get them.


    It’s not that I can’t relate to the anger at the root of revenge; it’s just that I Ieave its carryout to karma. What goes around comes around.


   Truth is, I haven’t the stomach for vengeance. Raw emotions are hard enough when they’re fresh. I can’t imagine holding onto them as they fester and grow.

    
I’ve known many people who’ve been tested in their lives and when I think to those who have come out the other side most intact, they’re inevitably the ones who’ve been able to let go of their anger.


    I liked my mother’s friend. She always treated me well, adored my parents and my family. But beneath the smiles she offered to us, there was always the trace of a muted rage. I didn’t know the full breadth of the backstory. All I knew was that the bile of her anger tainted most every part of her life. For her entire life. I wonder if she could have overcome her illness if she had found some sooner peace. Probably not. Happy people die, too.

    
My own friend could also have hung onto her anger. For a short while, she headed down its path. Her rage sometimes spilled over on nights out when her vocabulary was colored with curses.
 
    
But at decision time, she opted out of anger. Took a pass on revenge of any sort –even the legal, court-ordered kind.

    
It wasn’t worth it. 
    
    
Not to her.


    Not to me either.



    This isn’t magnanimous gesture on my behalf. It’s not a concerted or conscious effort to take a higher road. It’s more an energy thing. And a life-is-short sort of thing. I don’t have the energy to waste on an emotion I don’t like.
 
    
And life is short. Too short to spend it plotting revenge. Maybe even too short to spend watching it.