Like Mr. Trump, we often have trouble curbing our worst instincts. Unlike Mr. Trump, ours aren’t a threat to civilization. The planet will survive even the most ardent exhibitionists and pyromaniacs among us.
But we shouldn’t underestimate impulses, they’re a powerful force. Entire industries are devoted to helping us fight urges like gambling and drinking; drugs and smoking and overeating. We enlist the aid of self-help books, therapists, meditation, hypnosis, anything to fortify ourselves against chocolate and caffeine, Lay’s potato chips. Temptation is everywhere.
The big chink in my armor is rash behavior. I don’t ever stop to think. On occasion, when I do get a thought, I act decisively. I quit jobs in a huff, buy houses on a whim, essentially I shoot myself in the foot regularly. I don’t consider fallout until it’s too late. Experience has taught me nothing.
Last week, for example, I stopped outside the federal courthouse on a cool, gray afternoon, in a hoodie and sunglasses (think Unabomber), to fiddle with my cellphone. I just stopped dead in my tracks and scrolled through iTunes for long minutes, then I strolled on. Why federal protective services and US marshals didn’t swarm or shoot or taser is a mystery.
But maybe that’s the upside to life in a small city? They didn’t see a terrorist setting a timer, they saw a dope. That’s me.
There’s a dope in the White House, too, and his impulses are typically catastrophic. Here’s good news, though, he doesn’t represent America or Americans. He doesn’t represent coal miners or factory workers or economic growth or humanity or hope. Mr. Trump represents Mr. Trump.
So, all things being equal, I’ll throw my lot in with science and reality, thank you.
copyright © 2017 the whirly girl