Power Tripping

I don’t know what I would do without my recovery wisdom to guide me each day.

Yet there are some precepts I resist with every foolish fiber of my psyche. Even when I know to my soul what I oughter be doing, sometimes I just don’t wanna do what I should. I refuse to take that most fundamental of sober actions, which is to accept the truth of recovery’s truisms and the sagacity of its sayings.

Here is a sober mantra so obvious and basic I feel ashamed that I wrestle with it on a daily basis. But I do:

I have no control over people, places and things.

You may be familiar with my struggle. Or maybe you struggle similarly.

Every few posts I return to this topic and bemoan my penchant for believing that I have domain over the world around me, and my embarrassing attempts to install myself as queen of all that I survey.

This need to be regal tends to arise in situations where rules are not being followed. I perceive a power vacuum and believe it is my job to take charge over people, places and things. Readers of this blog may recall that my control freakishness peaked pre-covid whilst riding Amtrak’s Quiet Car.

You might think that because I have stopped using public transportation due to the pandemic, I might also have stopped trying to be hall monitor of any space I occupy.

Alas, no.

I had a chance to test this theory just the other day while walking my dog in my new DC neighborhood. I am sorry to say that rather than walk, I chose instinctively to patrol my new turf, if only inside my mind. I decided, unbidden, that it was my job to ensure that everyone on the street was observing the scientifically-based recommendation, if not legally enforceable law, to wear a mask over nose and mouth and maintain six-foot distancing from other pedestrians. Everywhere I looked people were flouting those lifesaving rules: young people, old people, babysitters, fellas with leaf blowers and one chatty postal worker who sauntered up to every door running her mouth sans masque.

As the self-appointed doyenne of street etiquette, I grew despondent. What should I do? What could I do? I considered my options.

The first scheme that popped into my head was to approach those not wearing masks and suggest that they do so. The problem with this idea, I reasoned, was that I might run into an irate anti-masker who would rip off my facial covering and sock me in the nose while showering me with toxic-droplet-laden vocal expletives. Not a good plan.

A kinder, gentler and less provocative approach might be to carry a supply of paper masks in my pocket and hand them silently to all offenders. This strategy, however, might still trigger a violent reaction. Someone might ball up the mask and strike me with it.

Finally I considered setting up a little folding table outside my house, piling it high with masks and placing a polite sign encouraging passersby to take one and use it. This seemed to be the best option until I remembered that if you leave objects with any value curbside they are likely to be snatched up and sold online.

In the end I had to admit that I still have no control over people, places and things, and if I wish to preserve my serenity and sobriety I might want to retire my crown.

Well, sort of.

If and when I return to the Quiet Car, post-covid, the temptation to don that tiara might be too seductive to resist. Which brings to mind another saying:

More will be revealed.

Stay tuned, loyal subjects.