How I learned saintly patience (or not)
It is exhausting to hold a grudge; to lug it around, a heavy bag of something unresolved, a tote of trauma. Better to find a resolution, or walk away, but hey – a grudge sure does make for a great girls’ night in.
There’s nothing quite like curling up with your pals, plotting the downfall of those who’ve slighted you. It’s no help for serious issues but for the small stuff – the petty infractions by loved ones and acquaintances, – catharsis can be found in vino and vengeance (both served cold and disproportionately large).
For example, as an insomniac, I was looking forward to my night in alone. But in the darkness, I heard a clattering. I investigated, finding my half-cut boyfriend in a heap on the sofa. Slouched and slurring, his hair wild and eyes glazed, no longer my beloved but some kind of woodland gremlin. “There he is,” said my internal David Attenborough voice. “The legless extremis of the homosapiens.” I put him to bed, pulling off his shoes and praying for a sleep without brain-penetrating, gloating snores. (“I’m asleep! And you’re not,” they say.) It was a prayer left unanswered.
“What punishment?” I asked my council of 5ft 5in despots. “If he’s hungover, now is the time to drill things in the house,” said Ellie. “Set his alarm for 2am every night for the next week,” said Michelle. Even if it wakes me? “Vengeance has its price.”
Related: How I learned to resolve conflict – most of the time | Coco Khan
Does being a proper grownup mean exhibiting a saintlike state of zen? I thought for a while that it did; that when faced with a nuisance, I’d summon patience rather than payback.
But I enjoy a bit of teenage pettiness. I like to wallow in it, exacting a small revenge (evicting him to the sofabed for a night) but planning a wild one (horse head under the covers). So, if being a real grownup means giving up that pleasure, well, I suppose it’s Neverland for me.
