I’ve occasionally had reason to reflect upon my “mindset”, and each time pondered upon the word’s true definition. It’s, oh … Approach? Outlook? Attitude? YES! – that must be it: ATTITUDE. I have that in spades, and had it all my life.
“Margaret Rose: why do you always have to be different?!” Mother Angelina.
Unfortunate woman, I can think now, but no way I could see her like that all those years ago. Then she was the nun who white-anted me behind my back throughout the entire year I was Head Prefect, encouraging the boarders to whom I’d handed down hideous punishments, such as being refused their 15-minute break during study period (for equally appalling criminal acts), to come to her and be relieved of their sentences. Oh, how I hated her!
How strange to suddenly remember her just because I started writing about my attitudinal … erhmm … habits. To mention one of my own characteristics and instantly be taken back to a single question amongst a thousand or so uttered by the Mistress of Schools at my convent school, where I and all my sisters attended from kindy right through.
Because surely my mindset has remained what it was and gives every appearance of continuing to be forever, or as long as I keep clutching onto this twig without dropping off. Hasn’t it? I mean, doesn’t it …?
I wonder … can one’s mindset actually change? Can a person start out a stroppy fat kid with shapeless ankles (my bloody MOTHER gave me those genes) amongst a bevy of gorgeous sisters on not one of whom would the following instructions have resulted in a millimetre too much skin.
“Caliper should be placed 1 to 2 cm away from the thumb and finger, perpendicular to the skin fold, halfway between the crest and the base of the fold. Release the caliper lever so its spring tension is exerted on the skinfold and the pinch maintained while reading caliper.”
Why did I quote that? It was one of the things that Me Mam, or my bloody MOTHER as just mentioned, had sporting professionals do to me with dreaded frequency. She was ever keen on getting the weight off me, and I reckon that’s where my attitude originated. For she fed me up as a baby (me, not her!) and then, finding she had an over-large though not ugly 4th daughter, spent my puberty attempting unsuccessfully to render me as slim as the others. How could any kid come away from that without having an aggro mindset?
And yet … and yet … I’m not an aggro person.
Am I?
Certainly I will become irritated if a person with whom I am conversing indicates an unacceptable degree of dickheadedness. I must admit that I have been known to show icily extreme rudeness when treated badly in shops. And then, there is an undeniable tendency to get up and simply walk out when bored shitless, regardless of assembled numbers …
But that’s not being AGGRO. That’s just being … intolerant.
And that is indeed me. Intolerant. So, was my mindset one of intolerance as a kid …? Nup. It was, as Mother Angelina should easily have seen, one of being fatter than everyone else and needing to distract attention from that. But I imagine the intolerance grew over the years, encouraged by my family environment (for we were raised to be demanding of standards we expected met).
Painting so unattractive a picture of myself in my early years is not likely to generate fond smiles and general understanding. The truth rarely does. But then, it doesn’t matter, because I am a person who has a way of thinking about things that includes not giving a rat’s arse what people think of me …
CRAP!
Christ, but I’m a good bullshitter!
(grin)
Listen, EVERYONE cares what people think of them. And if truth be told, my intolerance consists largely of things meant to be laughed at. And they are, believe me! Making people laugh at this image is something I’m good at. Years ago my “grumpy” personality was developed, and conversations would often turn upon whether or not a topic would cause me ire, while those participating reckoned they were trembling with fear. It was a pretend mindset, and it amused everyone.
When my husband died, I thought I’d disappeared forever. For 5 or 6 years after losing him I feared I would be forever a kind of gelatinous amoeba. But it didn’t happen! My persona reasserted itself and suddenly, there I was, stroppy as buggery, rude to the point of insulting (if you were stupid) and making people laugh again.
Jesus. Fan-tas-tic!!!
I have to admit it: it was me Mam who made me who I am, impossible woman that she was. And although I hate all the gods for taking away the other half of me, I have to thank them for letting me have back, eventually, the real me.
But intolerance still rules. I know Gandhi said that intolerance betrays want of faith in one’s cause; but as I have no idea what that is, I DON’T CARE! 😀
Has anyone else got characteristics that others may find confronting too?