When I wore power suits, I had power....

Once upon a time, I was tough. I had the proverbial "backbone." I didn't back down to people, and generally didn't mind confrontation. I remember a day, back in Savannah real estate, when I said to my then-business-partner Kim, "well this'll be a fun one," as we were dealing with an impossible, rude, demanding couple buying their first home. They antagonized me with late-night phone calls, daily complaints, and wish-lists for things that I should pay for on their behalf, since, of course, they chose me as their Realtor in a sea of other real estate professionals. I took it with a grain of salt. I didn't mind. I may have even enjoyed the challenge. I'd give assertive answers, I'd get the job done, and I'd show up to the lawyer's office for closing, in my black Ann Taylor suit, my favorite Coach heels and and my Louis Vuitton briefcase that begged for the commission check. (Insert materialistic sigh).
Today, friends, I avoid phone calls. I hate to talk on the phone, except for the "regulars" I talk to every week. I love caller ID. If I don't recognize the number, I don't pick up. I don't check my voicemail, either. I generally don't want to know who is calling, because I probably won't call them back anyway. Now, if the call is confrontational, i.e., if there is a problem that I am to somehow solve or otherwise remedy, I really don't want to hear about it. Perhaps I feel, subconsciously, that I did my time. I handled my share of conflict in life. I've been on the receiving end of some horrible calls, with horrible news, and I'm, well, done.
However, it's 1:43 a.m. here, and I awakened from my sleep with one thought: when did I become a sissy?
Maybe you think "sissy" is a bit much, considering I've only mentioned that I avoid phone calls. But I think I avoid more than that. For instance, I don't like dealing with people in person, either, anymore. I find the older I get, the more annoyed I get. Am I a crotchety old woman, at the ripe old age of 29?

I found myself in the check out line of the grocery store, in the deceiving "20 items or less" lane the other day. Everybody always has at least 21 things. Maybe a few more, but, I figured it would be my best bet to at least try to get out of there quickly. Friends, I loathe the supermarket. I love food; I hate buying it. Let's not start me on that tangent. Anyway, I'm behind Little-Miss "I can fit all my needs in one of those little baskets and carry it home in my one little earth-friendly recycled fabric bag." I have never been able to fit all of my stuff in one of those baskets. In the few times I've attempted it, I've nearly killed myself trying to lug it around, obviously full beyond capacity, and left serious track-marks on my forearms from trying to distribute its weight. I regress. Did I mention it's like 1:45 a.m.? My point is, this gal ended up arguing with the cashier over a box of too-expensive teeth whitening strips. She had a coupon. The cashier wouldn't take it. I was immediately annoyed. I would have backed out of the lane, chose another one, and cut my losses. But I'd already used the little separator thing, and put my groceries on the belt. Reloading my cart was not an option. I stood patiently for about a minute. This is a personal record. I tried to soothe my antsy children. I felt an edge in my voice as I told my son "NO" for the one-hundred-ninetieth time he asked for a Ring Pop. They're sticky messes, I'm telling you, Ring Pops. They make for sticky, messy little boys. I shushed my daughter and felt my hands growing sweaty on the handle of the cart; my forehead prickling with sweat as well. It wasn't hot. I was becoming that irritated. Something happens to me that never did before. I get anxious. I get this bewildered sense of...I don't know...craziness. It's a short trip from patience to losing it. The final straw was when the cashier put her flashing light on, for assistance. Little-Miss platinum highlights in front of me was insistent upon using her coupon. It had expired, I overheard. My inner-sissy was telling me to calm down...it'll pass...mellow out and avoid conflict. Then it hit me. Suddenly I was not wearing Adidas track pants, running shoes and a hooded tie-dye sweatshirt. I was in heels, a pencil skirt and pantyhose, and gol-darn-it, when I'm in pantyhose, I mean business. I heard a voice say "Excuse me, dear. I would guess that you have better things to do than stand here and wait for another Meijer employee to come and verify that it is not acceptable to take an expired coupon, and frankly, your teeth appear white enough already. I,in fact, also have better things to do. I'm not exactly sure what those things are, because my life consists of doing things like laundry and changing diapers, but it wasn't always like this, I used to be a little like you. You know, before...this," as I swept my arm over the cart containing my children and groceries. "If you look into my eyes and see the crazy woman behind them, at her breaking point, I am certain that you will end this ridiculous rant and be on your way." Did I just say that? I think I did. Okay, I didn't say the last part, about the eyes and the crazy woman, because, really, they might have called the cops, and I'd be typing from a rubber room right now.
Friends, here's the long and short of it. I always like it when people say "the long and short of it," even though I don't get it. At all.
I have, somewhere along the line, mellowed into some passive-aggressive wanna be of the old me. I'm not confrontational anymore, at least, not right away. I'm now the type who becomes sick, physically, at the thought of having to address "an issue" with someone. I hold on to bad associations way too long simply so I do not have to face them. I am overwhelmed with motherhood, housewifehood, groceryshoppinghood and all of the 'hoods in between, leaving me no time to be the power suit-donning fireball I once was. Maybe, just maybe, a piece of her is still in me, though...and maybe that's enough to someday spark up my "old ways."
On the flip side, though, since I traded pantyhose for track pants, I don't have to shave my legs as often.