The Real Hurt Locker

Whipping the bed covers up to my neck Jan yelled, “Hey! You just hit my eye with the blanket! You need to be more careful.”

I begged forgiveness telling her, “Honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. You’re the last person I’d want to hurt.”

She again reminded me to be careful, but that got me thinking. I’d told her she was the last person I’d want to hurt. Which, in my mind, means there’s someone at the opposite end of the who "I’d want to hurt” list.

Throughout the night I sorted through names and injustices inflicted on me. I thought of grade school bullies who wanted a piece of me but I was too fast to catch. I remembered high school jocks (or jerks) that tripped me in the hallway sending books and papers flying across the breezeway. I’ve been accused of wrongs I had no part of, been called names that can’t be repeated, and embarrassed by those who made light of my sometimes lack of coordination. Blood pressure mounted as I thought of a manager who failed to promote me; insightful college essays that should have deserved A’s, and teachers who misunderstood my creative answers on multiple choice tests.

My anger focused on the phlebotomist who wrapped the elastic bandage so tight around my arm that hair ripped from the roots while taking off the bandage. I remembered the lady who hit me with her car, ruining my bike, and the many Irish people who’d slammed doors in my face.

I was so caught up in the list that I turned from who’s to whats. The dog that sank teeth into my back, keys that stayed in the car after I locked the doors, and an omnipresent weed that’s seized my front lawn.

But, at the top of my who or what I’d like to hurt most are:

Corporate America that outsources customer service calls to Frank and Jane in India.

Crashing hard drives that evaporate years of work in an atomic instant.

And finally, that dang piece of Jan’s carry on luggage that rolled under my foot and threw me to the ground in front of a crowd of people in the passenger pick up area at the Rochester New York Airport. When Jan’s gone I go out in the garage and slam it to the ground, stomp and kick it then place it back on the shelf. And Jan wonders why this bag is wearing out.