I’m a Nice Person, Until…

I’m a nice person, until ..…

A funny confession about machines, lost tempers, and my not-so-secret alter ego.

I like to think of myself as a fairly nice person.
Friendly. Reasonable. Mostly calm.
The kind of person who will listen before reacting and who genuinely tries to see things from more than one perspective.
Well… at least that’s how I see myself.

But, and this is a BIG but, there is one very specific thing that can flip my internal switch from calm, rational adult to feral cavewoman in a matter of seconds.

And no, before you ask, it’s not people.
People, for the most part, don’t get my temper going. I’m surprisingly patient when it comes to human beings, their quirks, their moods, their opinions, and their occasional nonsense.
Unless, of course, your last name happens to be Trump ….. Uhhhgg.
But that is not what I want to talk about today.

No, the true trigger for my not-so-secret alter ego is something far more ridiculous.

Machines!!!

Anything mechanical, electrical, or technically inclined that suddenly decides to stop working for no apparent reason.
That is where my temper lives.
I have never been able to tolerate it when equipment quits on me.
Not computers ... Not vehicles ... Not household appliances ... Not anything with wires, gears, buttons, or mysterious inner workings I do not understand.
And I’ve always been this way.
I am, in the politest possible terms, not a tech-savvy person. Which means that when something breaks, freezes, refuses to cooperate, or simply dies without explanation, I immediately need help.

Enter my husband.
Thankfully, I am married to a man with what I like to call golden hands. To me he is the undisputed king of fixing things.
If something can be repaired, adjusted, rebuilt, rewired, or resurrected from the dead, he will find a way.
To me, he is nothing short of magical.
You can give him anything and he fixes it, if he tells me to buy something new, it simply means it is unfixable.

At one point, he decided that my computer needed a new hard drive. This was terrifying news for me,
because my computer is essentially an extension of my brain. My work, my writing, my designs, my entire digital life lives in that box.
But while I was internally preparing for disaster, he calmly handled it.
In what felt like a heartbeat, it was done. No drama. No crisis.

Electricity? Water systems? Central heating? No problem ... Well… okay ... Occasionally I do hear him cussing quietly under his breath, but that’s usually the extent of it.

Some time ago, he bought himself a motorbike. Not a ready-to-ride motorbike, like most people would buy ... Oh no no no ...
This one arrived completely disassembled, packed into crates, containing what looked like a million random parts that only made sense if your brain works in mechanical blueprints.
Three (!) days later, there was a fully assembled, functioning motorbike standing proudly on the bridge in his workshop. I could go on and on. You name it, he fixes it.

I, on the other hand, am his exact opposite. I don’t really understand how electricity works. I can change or attach a plug, and that is pretty much where my confidence ends.
Cars? I can check the oil level, check the tire pressure, and of course fill up the tank. End of story.
Normally, this isn’t a problem, because my husband always comes to the rescue.

But there is one terrifying question lurking beneath all of this.
What if he isn’t there when something breaks?
Because that …that is when my temper breaks free almost immediately.

And before you judge me too harshly, let me reassure you: in my heart of hearts, I truly am a balanced person. Opinionated? Absolutely. I’ll own that.
But overall, I am kind, reasonable, and generally not prone to violent outbursts.
Generally!

Now let me give you a few examples. And I swear, every single one of these actually happened.
This first incident occurred very early in our marriage.
I was riding my small scooter to work, just like I always did, when halfway there it suddenly stopped working.
Just stopped!!!
I couldn’t start it again. I couldn’t coax it. I couldn’t reason with it.
And yes, I had just filled it up.
After trying everything I could think of (which, admittedly, wasn’t much), my frustration boiled over. I was angry. Embarrassed. Late. And done.
Without thinking twice, I pushed the stupid thing straight into a water-filled ditch.
There were a few dramatic blub-blub sounds, and then it disappeared into the muddy depths, only part of it was still visible.
Problem solved.

Another incident involved my vacuum cleaner. It had stopped working again. Emphasis on again.
I lost my patience, stomped on it, and broke both back wheels clean off.
Oops ... And No ... he could not fix it this time. I had to vacuum for a long time while dragging it around in stead of rolling it around.

But it gets worse ... yes ... I know ... but keep in mind that it is not me, but my evil twin!
We once had an old car with a delightful personality quirk: once it was properly warmed up, it absolutely refused to
start again if you turned it off for a short time. Grocery shopping was always a gamble.
One evening, after a long 12-hour workday, including the commute, I arrived home completely exhausted.
I needed to turn the car off because the mailbox key was attached to the car key. You already know where this is going.
The car would not start again. And we had a long driveway, a very long one.
I gathered my things, including a newly bought skillet. I took about three steps toward the house before exhaustion,
frustration, and suppressed rage collided. Without thinking, I turned around and
hit a dent into the car with the brand-new skillet ... Yes ...Temper, my dark alter ego has plenty of it.

An hour later, when I finally arrived at work, I called my husband, who worked about two miles down the road, and told him the scooter had broken down.
There was a pause.
Then he quietly asked where it was now.
When I told him I had pushed it into the ditch, all I heard was a very deep, very tired sigh.
Later, I learned that he went with a colleague, dragged the scooter out of the mud, and brought it home.

And yes ... He fixed it!

Another memorable moment involved leaving a car in the middle of a rural crossroads after it stopped working entirely. To my credit, I walked for about ten minutes before coming to my senses, turning back, and calling for reinforcements.

There are many more stories like this.
But luckily, or perhaps mercifully, I have changed over the years. I wouldn’t say I’ve completely mellowed. But I have learned to control my temper better.
Still, that deep anger and frustration are always there, waiting patiently, whenever something mechanical refuses to cooperate.
I honestly don’t know why it hits me so hard.
Even now, writing this and thinking about it again, I can’t fully explain where it comes from, or why it brings out the absolute worst in me.

The strange thing is that I am not like this with anything else.
I can get frustrated with our animals, sure, but never truly angry. I would never, ever hit a person. Unless, once again, their last name is Trump.
That man has a special talent for summoning my alter ego.

My husband and I can have big arguments, but they never last long. Within ten minutes, we’re discussing instead of shouting.
And when something doesn’t work out while I’m crafting, I simply walk away and leave it for another time.

But machines? ... Oh boy ... Machines are my kryptonite.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, riles me up like mechanical things that refuse to work.
Sick, huh?
So now you know the secret to waking my evil twin.

And I think it’s only fair that
you share yours.

What is the one thing, the ridiculous, irrational, oddly specific trigger, that wakes up your inner menace?

Because I refuse to believe I’m the only one walking around with a well-hidden alter ego,
just waiting for the wrong machine to break at the wrong moment.

Go on ... Tell me your evil-twin story.

It would honestly make me feel soooo much better ... Please ...?

Rosita