Never Mind
The more I age, the more I feel like Gilda Radner’s Emily Litella. Passionate screeds, followed by “Oh, that’s very different. Never mind.” Outraged by the way a friend responded. Offended by a remark. Righteous anger at that policy. Then I realize I misheard or was missing key information or ate something and got a good night’s sleep. Never mind. So I hold back, try to be humble, not overreact. And fear I’m also at risk of becoming Neville Chamberlain or the frog in a boiling pot. Maybe if I ignore it, it’ll go away. It’s just a little vexation, a little violation, a little degradation. Day after day. Until I’m numb. Until we’re boiling to death. If wisdom is knowing the difference, I feel so far from wise.
If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. A comment, a share, or even just a like goes a long way. Writing into the void is its own practice, but knowing the work lands makes it easier to keep showing up.