Mood Swing

“Because?” Danforth prompted.

“Because I don’t like getting awakened from a sound sleep in the middle of the night.”

“Hmm. Would you be this angry with anyone else who woke you at 3:00 a.m.?”

“Of course.”

“Even if it were an emergency of some sort?”

“Well, no—”

“When she calls, what else do you discuss besides her problems?”

“Nothing, of course. It’s all about her. On, and on, and on. She couldn’t care less about anything going on in my life.”

“Ah. Then your I-Message statement would more accurately read, ‘I feel hurt when you call and monopolize the conversation to vent about your problems because it makes me feel as if you don’t care about mine.’”

“Sorry, no,” Monica said. “I’ve never cared whether she cares about me or not. It’s those middle-of-the-night calls I can do without.”

“In any case, you should discuss these phone calls with her in a nonconfrontational manner.” He gave her a pointed stare. “But do try to be true to yourself about what lies at the root of your anger.”

By the look on her face, Monica clearly thought she was right down at the very tip of that root, no matter what Danforth said.

He turned to Susan. “Ms. Roth? To whom is your I-Message directed?”

“My daughter. She’s fourteen.”

“Please read it for the class.”

“I feel angry when you bring notes home from school but don’t tell me about them until the last minute because then I’m rushed to complete whatever task I’ve been asked to do.” Susan looked up. “It’s no fun making brownies at midnight.”

“Simple solution,” Tonya said. “If she can’t get you the note in time, she doesn’t get the brownies.”

“Right. And then all the other mothers think I’m a slacker.”

Danforth tapped his chin with his index finger. “So the opinions of the other mothers are part of the reason you’re angry? You feel inadequate?”

“No,” Susan said. “I just want my daughter to give me the notes so I have time to do whatever I’m supposed to do. That’s all.”

“So time pressure is another part of the equation.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Susan said carefully, “if my daughter just gave me the notes.”

“Restructured, your I-Message might read, ‘I feel angry when you don’t give me notes in time because then I have to accomplish the task on short notice or risk alienation from my peers.’”

Alienation from her peers? Did anyone besides Danforth actually talk like that?

“You see,” he went on, “I sense that the problem doesn’t lie with your daughter, but with your resentment over having to do these tasks at all.”

“No, I really don’t think—”

“Dig deep, Ms. Roth. Get at the real reason for your anger. Only by doing that will you be able to manage it effectively.”

He was dead wrong about this. Susan didn’t mind doing mom tasks. But she minded very much doing them at midnight, and that was about as deep as she intended to dig.

Danforth turned to Tonya. “Ms. Rutherford. To whom are you addressing your I-Message?”

“One of my customers.”

“Share it with the class, please.”

Tonya picked up her form and read. “I feel frustrated when you come into my shop with a horrible comb-over and expect me to cut it like that again.”

Susan and Monica snickered a little, and Danforth held up his hand to them. “Because?”

“Because then you go back to work or wherever and somebody says, ‘Hey, where did you get that…uh…great haircut?’ and you say, ‘Tonya Rutherford over at Tonya’s Hair Design did it.’ Then my reputation is in the toilet because everyone thinks I suggested that god-awful cut. Bad word of mouth can screw up my business something awful. But I can’t say anything because pissing you off as a customer would screw up my business, too.” She sat back and folded her arms. “So basically, I’m screwed.”

Danforth blinked dumbly. “Yes. Well. At least you seem to be in touch with the reason for your anger in this situation.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps instead of direct confrontation, you could suggest a new haircut to this gentleman?”

“Please. Like I haven’t tried that?”

“Hmm. Sometimes there are professional situations where confrontation, even constructive confrontation, isn’t the answer. Could you simply be unavailable in the future when he makes an appointment?”

“I take walk-ins. What am I supposed to do? Lock the door when I see him coming?”

“You’ll simply have to decide whether refusing to cut his hair if he refuses to change his style would be more helpful to your business than harmful.”

“Did I mention he tips really well? I don’t like losing good tippers. But that hair…God.”

“In future classes, we’ll be discussing how to manage the anger you’re forced to hold inside when the expression of it is inappropriate. I’m certain that will help with your dilemma.”

“Oh, screw it,” Tonya said, waving her hand. “Next time he comes in, I’ll just shave him bald.”

Danforth closed his eyes. Was he counting to ten, maybe?

“You know that kind of aggressiveness is completely inappropriate,” he said, as if Tonya would actually consider it.

Then again, maybe she would.

After that, Danforth turned on a video that showed people in a class like theirs sharing their I-Messages, as if they needed reinforcement on that particular method. By the time he finally dismissed class, Susan was more than ready to leave. She stopped by the bathroom on the way out, joined by Monica and Tonya.

“Thank God,” Tonya said, as they stood at the sink. “One more class behind us. All that ‘I-Message’ stuff was a crock.”

“I could have done without it, too,” Monica said.

“Dig deeper,” Susan said. “Why? As if I wasn’t angry enough about the issue already?”

“After all that, I still don’t know what to do about Comb-over Guy.” Tonya swiped on some lipstick. “I’m heading to that new bar and grill down the street for a drink. Anybody care to join me?”