4 O’Clock Rage

Sometimes when my alarm goes off in the morning I get a version of what my dad calls “rage”.  It all started with my mom’s 4 o’clock Rage, that’s the original.  You see, my mom can be the sweetest, happiest lady all day long, but when the clock strikes 4 pm and my dad comes home, a deep and hateful rage starts brewing until it boils over into a full on rage when she has to start cooking dinner.  It used to scare my pitbull.  As intense and as quick as 4 o’clock rage can be, it disappears just a quickly.  I have, as an adult, begrudgingly had to admit that I do take after my parents in some good ways but in some unsavory ones as well.  So I know I got the Rage gene when this morning I heard my alarm go off and went from R.E.M. sleep to an alarming anger that came from deep within and unfortunately was targeted on Tommy.  That’s the thing about rage, it picks the victim, sometimes they are innocent, sometimes they are not.  Tommy was innocent for a time this morning, but he made one fatal error about 14 minutes into the morning.  As I was preparing the most important meal of the day, the smell of bacon was starting to turn my frown upside down and the rage began melting away.  Then he did it, Tommy pulled down an avocado from atop the refrigerator, set it in the middle of the counter where I was already juggling not burning bacon, getting cream in coffee cups and carefully monitoring the eggs so he could flip them for me (I can’t flip over medium eggs) and said: “You think you can cut up this avocado?”  Since I was over Alarm Clock Rage, which let’s face really boils down to Having to Work Because I Didn’t Marry a Rich Man Rage…I think this can be newly defined as Breakfast Rage.  I screamed at him: “I DON’T HAVE TIME TO CUT UP AN AVOCADO!!!!  IF YOU WANT ME TO CUT UP AVOCADOS, I NEED MORE TIME WHICH MEANS I WILL NEED TO IMMEDIATELY QUIT MY JOB TO BE A STAY AT HOME WIFE!!!!”  In typical Tommy fashion, he remained cool and just let me know how insane I sounded.  As I sat and ate my eggs and bacon just a few minutes later, I felt the rage disappear only to be replaced by a new unsettling feeling: self-actualization.  I have become, at least in part, my mother and another innocent victim of Rage has been found in Tommy.  Is there a cure for rage?  I don’t know conclusively, but trust that I am searching for answers until I do.

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