It’s Luxurious Saturday here. It’s mid-afternoon, and so far, I’m still in my pajamas. I’ve spent the day hanging out with the doxies and reading. Among other things, I read the latest issue of Vanity Fair cover to cover. Bliss!
So, this is the issue with Tiger Woods all shirtless and sweaty. My first thought was, “Look at those abs. I wonder if that’s what I look like, seeing as how I’ve done Shred five of the last seven days?”
And then I came back to Earth.
The article was all about Tiger’s dramatic and unmatched fall from grace – not the details of what girls and where, but an overall look at his role in golf and society and what’s going to happen next.
I find myself focusing on his wife, Elin. Girlfriend was so mad that she chased after him with a golf club and used it to break out the back window of his SUV. That’s one angry woman.
Good for her. I’m a little jealous.
See, I’ve been that kind of angry before. And I didn’t pick up the golf club, or the lamp, or the book, or whatever inanimate object was handy. Sometimes? I wish I had. But good girls don’t do such things. I’m not saying that Elin didn’t totally have the right to go after her philandering husband – I’m just saying that it’s not something good girls are taught how to do.
About a month after I left Ex-Ex, I drove past our formerly shared home on my way to a yoga class. It was a Sunday morning. In the driveway of the house, I saw the car of his “I swear we’re just friends even though we spend A LOT of time together” former high school girlfriend. On a Sunday morning.
Did I mention it was on a Sunday morning?
In that one, blinding moment, I understood why people lose their shit. Because the first thing that popped into my mind – other than “that whore is fucking my man in my bed on my sheets in my bedroom – which I painted myself, thank you” – was that I needed to go around the block. I needed to go around the block so that I could ram my car into her car. Repeatedly. It was like the chemical makeup of my body completely changed – I was suddenly warm and tense and made of some sort of liquid metal, like Robocop.
So, what did I do? I went to yoga. I cried on the phone to BFF for 10 minutes, but I went to that stupid yoga class, which wasn’t yoga at all. It was tense liquid metal Cha Cha pretending to stretch and be all Zen when really I had hatred radiating off my skin, like radioactive sweat.
Elin did what I wished I’d had the opportunity and guts to do.
And even with Ex-Wonderful, when I found out that he’d lied to me about his coworker “friend” and whether or not they were on the same business trip together? When I caught him in a lie about a whore – I mean a woman – he’d admitted he had feelings about?
I was wearing shoes. It occurred to me to pull them off and aim for his nose. But all I could manage was a maniacal laugh! I laughed and felt totally insane! I told him to find me a drifter because I needed to kill somebody! And then? Then, I let him take me out for pancakes. I ate the rage.
Again? Kudos to Elin.
I am afraid of confrontation. I’m afraid of that kind of passion or volatility or lack of control – whatever you want to call it. I’m afraid of it, but I look approvingly at it when it’s attached to other people, admire people who can harness that energy appropriately.
Not that brandishing a golf club against your husband and his car is the most appropriate action ever, but really? Really, the fucker deserved it. And I bet it made Elin feel a whole lot better. It got that sick, twisted energy out of her body instead of letting it eat her alive.
Me? I’m still a little bit pissed.