That Stings
By Sharla Gorder
I saw red. I turned quickly and exited the store. Anger washed over me as I stomped to my car. What just happened?
It had started out as a pretty good day. I had been doing the awkward work of marketing my new book — visiting local shops to see if they would like to stock Crayon Dawn. Responses had been great. I thought I’d make one last stop.
I walked into the store and waited at the checkout counter. And waited. And waited. Finally, an employee emerged from the back. I smiled and asked if she was — let’s call her — Jenny. She said, “Yes. Can’t talk. Have a meeting. I’m already late,” and before I could respond, she turned and left. She didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t summon another employee to assist me. Didn’t acknowledge me in any way other than to dismiss me in ten words or less. I said goodbye to her back, and I left the store.
I sat there in my car grappling with my emotions. And while anger seemed to be the ringleader, I quickly realized that “seeing red” had other metaphorical implications. I felt oddly embarrassed, almost ashamed, as though I’d done something wrong and had been dismissed for bad behavior. This seemed utterly irrational of course — as I had simply walked into a place of business, smiled and spoken cordially to another human. Hardly a crime.
Clearly, this wasn’t about her; it was about me. And my “mixed emotions” had so much to tell me.
I recently listened to a fascinating podcast about the importance of accurately naming our emotions. According to Yale researcher and author Marc Brackett, labeling our feelings helps our brain put the brakes on our emotional responses, giving it the chance to make sense of the feelings we’ve just experienced.
Naming them can also help transform them. My emotions morphed from anger to embarrassment and eventually, to curiosity. I began to wonder what kind of day this harried store manager must be having. Maybe it was just the worst. I’ve been there. And I’ve snapped at a customer or two in my day — a fireable offense when I worked as a flight attendant for Pan Am in the 1980s.
My most spectacular display of rudeness was on a flight from London to New York. I had been called out on reserve with only 40 minutes to get to the airport. A full plane was waiting just for me so it could depart. I made it to the airport in record time, breathless and sweaty. I raced down the jetway, onto the plane and was thrown into the most challenging position on this 747SP — the upper deck. I was frantically trying to secure the galley, when a friendly voice on the stairs behind me chirped, “What’s for supper?”
I slammed a bar cart door and barked, “I don’t know. I just got here!”
Silence. I turned and watched as Sting, followed by Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland ambled up the stairs.
Yes, I was rude, and no, it wasn’t a crime, but the Police did show up.
I’d like to report that that was the last time I spoke dismissively to a fellow human, but I have a husband who reads my column. So there’s that.
And yeah, I got my feelings hurt, and “I saw red.” I was mad — then embarrassed — then curious.
And finally red faded to pink — a color associated with empathy. All of those emotions were “valid,” as they were honest reactions and offered me useful insights, but only the last two, curiosity and empathy, were worth carrying on through the rest of my day.
I can get past the anger and onto something useful.
I don’t have to turn on the red light.
