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Yesterday, I threw a temper tantrum.   It reminded me of the great “Hair Clip Blowup” of ’95.  You might not have heard of it.  I scared people with that one.  Most friends had gotten used to seeing me as a usually sweet, non confrontational, people pleaser – which I generally am.  But, every once in a while, I get irrationally mad about something and go completely ballistic.  It’s never about anything important or serious.  Those things I let ride, which is, of course, why I subsequently throw these inappropriate wall-eyed fits.

Take the hair clip blowup.  It happened on a hot, muggy summer day in Texas sometime in 1995.  I was visiting friends, and we were preparing to go out, do some sightseeing, and pretend that the weather wasn’t as awful as it really was.  Suddenly, sometime between the time I got up that morning and the time we headed out the door, my hair got too long.  I couldn’t stand it.  It was touching my face.  This was untenable!!  This was outrageous!  I simply could not go on.  Never in the history of woman had anyone suffered this kind of pain, this kind of assault.  “I have GOT to get a hair clip, ” I suddenly announced to my friends.  “Do you hear me?  I can’t go out without a hair clip.  You cannot ask me to go anywhere without a hair clip.  Does anyone have a hair clip?  Quick, get me a hair clip.” I swept my half inch bangs off my forehead dramatically and felt I was about to swoon.  “Is anybody else hot,” I asked?  This hair is making me so hot.  My God, I’m melting.”

I had not brought my own car that day, so I was at the mercy of my friends, none of whom seemed to realize the magnitute of my discomfort.  None seemed willing to make a trip to the drug store for a measly old hair clip.  What was wrong with these people?  I began to cry.  Just a little at first.  I was about to go into heavy wracking sobs when someone finally took mercy on me, raced to the drug store and came back with an asssortment of hair clips, hair bands, hair nets and shower caps. (They weren’t taking any chances.)  As soon as I grabbed a big old hunk of hair (hard to do with hair as short as mine), I was my old self.  It was an amazing transformation.  Even I was dumbstruck with how quickly all that temper and indignity resolved itself.  It left me with the vague unsettling feeling that I was just a tiny bit unstable.

But, I digress.  Back to yesterday afternoon, when I had my most recent temper tantrum.  This one started outside a doctor’s office, where I had gone to retrieve some medical records.  As soon as I turned the office door handle and realized it didn’t budge, I was outraged.  “Incredible,” I thought to myself.  I had called ahead just that morning to make sure the records were ready and to find out if the office was closed for lunch.  (I felt so efficient.)  The receptionist told me the office was closed between 12 and 1, so I made plans to get there before noon.  Here it was – a quarter to 12 and these dastardly fiends were closed! 

I just knew there was someone inside.  Some receptionist, some secretary or medical assistant, just sitting there, eating a bad sack lunch.  They’d hear me knock and come to the door, for sure.  Who am I kidding?  What alternate universe am I living in? 

I knocked on the door, not too loud at first, but loud enough to be heard. Nothing. No response.  I knocked louder, then louder, then louder. Then way loud. I mean really loud. And my knocking had taken on a fast, staccato pace that surprised even me. I noticed that my knuckles were beginning to hurt just a little. 

I switched strategies then and called the office.  “No kidding,” I screamed when a recording informed me that the office was closed.  I was given a string of options about what to do if I were in a medical emergency, if I were a doctor or hospital, if I needed directions to the office, etc., etc.  Finally, I was able to leave a message.  My first message was relatively calm.  “I’m outside,” I explained sweetly to the impersonal machine.  “I came to get my medical records.  Please let me in.”

Subsequent messages (I left five) became less and less polite (although I am proud to say that I did not resort to profanity).  Further knocking became more and more frantic.  Heads popped out of office doors up and down the hall.  My knuckles were beginning to bruise and swell slightly.  Sweat was running down my back, and my face was starting to flush.  “Wow,” I thought.  “What the hell am I doing?” 

I decided it was time to get out of there, before somebody called the police. I mustered all the dignity I could find (which was precious little, I must admit.) I pretended not to see the small group of people on the first floor who undoubtedly heard my lapse of composure. This was only a two-story, atrium style office building, after all.

When I made it safely to my car, I realized that it was now 12:45. If I waited 15 more minutes, I could go back in and get my records. I decided against that, though. I was mad, and I wanted to stay mad.

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