Sweet release!

bread war

Can you imagine how cathartic it must be to throw a tantrum?
I don’t think adults can.
We can have hissy-fits, go into conniptions, do a slow burn or blow up in a rage, but these are no match for a tantrum… that all-encompassing, system-wide expression of anger that engages every cell in the body.
I came close about fifteen years ago… maybe a little longer. I had gotten home from work very late, and I was tired. Jeff was equally exhausted. The kids had lots of homework and needed a lot of help. Even if we’d had the energy to cook dinner, we really didn’t have the time.
Every red-blooded American knows the solution to this dilemma: pick up the phone and order a pizza.
I went to the land-line mounted on the kitchen wall and attempted to do just that.
“Hello, Pizza Chain? I’d like two large pies, please, one pepperoni and one sausage.”
“What’s the address?” asked the girl on the line.
I told her.
“Where’s that street?”
“Take Calvert and make a right at Elf.”
“What was that?”
“Elf.”
“How do you spell that?”
“E – L – F.”
“Elf.”
“What was that again?”
“E! L! F!”
“You have to speak to my manager.”
Sure enough, the dumb little bimbo goes and puts her boss on the phone.
“May I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like a sausage pie and a pepperoni pie delivered to this address.” I told him where I lived.
“Is that near a main road?”
“Yes. It’s parallel to Calvert. Just turn right on Elf.”
“What was that?”
“Elf.”
“How do you spell that?”
No.
He didn’t just ask that.
No, no, no, no, no.
“Elf,” I said, making that one little syllable last for an exceptionally long time.
“E.”
“L.”
“F.”
“Elf.”
Pause.
“Spell that for me again?” he asked.
My daughter swears that my face went into contortions that rival any ever made by Linda Blair.
I put the mouthpiece of the phone in front of my face, and in a voice that came from Hades I shouted, “You people are too stupid to feed my children!”
I didn’t just hang up. I banged the receiver on the kitchen’s faux brick wall until I chipped it, while jumping up and down in a hysterical frenzy.
My husband and children would have been concerned if they hadn’t been laughing so hard, which probably made me angrier.
All I remember for sure is that we didn’t have pizza that night, and I’ve never come that close to apoplexy again.
But that still didn’t qualify as a tantrum.
A tantrum comes from a deep, deep conviction that one is absolutely right. “That is MY COOKIE. It was baked for me by God.”
It comes from absolute selfishness… the kind that would make Ayn Rand look like Mother Teresa. “I don’t care if you’re hungry, I don’t care if you STARVE. The cookie is MINE.”
It bursts forth in utter abandon. One doesn’t just cry, one screams! The tears pour forth from the eyes as snot streams out of the nose, and spit flies everywhere. Unable to stand, one throws the body on the ground and writhes. The feet kick the earth in absolute frustration; the fists pound down as though they’d pulverize the firmament.
Any attempt to assuage a person who is in mid-tantrum will not be successful.
Don’t try to hand over that cookie. It will be hurled at you with the speed of a missile, and then, once it has crumbled, it will be mourned with cries that are even louder… pain that is more acute.
A tantrum must be allowed to run its course. It will have a denouement, as the cries give way to sobs, and the sobs wind down to sighs. The fists will stop pounding. The feet will stop kicking. The rage will dissolve, and sleep will take its place.
There will be peace.
Ah!
I wish I could know such peace again!

 

via Daily Prompt: Tantrum
Tantrum

2 thoughts on “Sweet release!

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