Law & Order

I read an article this week where it was reported that 85% of Americans report they have been treated "rudely" by another person. Ever. This was quoted as a staggeringly high statistic.

And I thought, "That's it?" Who are the other 15%? Babies? Animals? Deaf or blind maybe? France? Betty White perhaps?

I feel like all I have to do is leave my apartment in the morning to be set-up to be treated rudely. And sometimes even that's not necessary because I can be pretty awful to my own self.

Now granted, I do live in New York City, but I don't buy into the stereotype that New Yorkers are ruder than any other group. I personally think it's a numbers game -- with so many people here, you're bound to run into someone rude or be a party to rude behavior; it's inevitable. I've actually been treated far worse in allegedly more civilized places, like the suburbs.

And that's not to say that I'm a saint either. I've been known to eye roll with the best of them when waiting my definition of too long for someone or something, and I am the person you hear behind you muttering, "We're walking, we're walking ... oh, are we walking backwards now?" when you're meandering down the street and I'm in a hurry (which is always). And yes, on the subway platform, impatiently waiting for a train and frustrated that I couldn't see around the head of the person next to me, I did say, "Oh my God! Move your freaking head..." only to have the person turn around and force me to finish the sentence with "Steve Buscemi..."

Maybe I'm a cynic (maybe) but this leaves me thinking that maybe the other 15% just aren't recognizing the rudeness or, unbelievably to me, maybe they're just not taking it personally. Maybe they're just letting it roll off their backs. What's that quote about how you can't control things but you can control your reaction to them? Sounds like I'm lacking in the wisdom to know the difference department. Maybe I could learn something from them.

Maybe.

For those of you who know me, it likely comes as no surprise that righteous indignation is the fuel that I run on, it's the air that I breathe. I am pretty much always worked up about something not being "fair" or "right," with most cases not involving me at all (read: none of my business), so it's not that easy for me to walk away from the rude. It's likely not an accident that my career involves helping to right the wrongs of social injustice and helping to level the playing field.

I'm not sure where this comes from, but coming from a family with a lot of cops and firemen doesn't help any. Add in the thick layer of Irish Catholic guilt and there's a recipe for disaster right there. Right and wrong is in my bloodline.

In one of my earliest childhood memories, my dad decided to unload a fish tank and a trunk and some other treasures (aka junk) by selling them at a yard sale. He put me in charge and sat me down in the yard to keep an eye on them. He then went inside the house and about his business. Well, clearly I wasn't doing a great job being the keeper of the crap because next thing I knew the stuff was being loaded into the back of a van by a couple of guys. I nonchalantly told my dad, who quickly sprang into action to catch these "thieves." He ran back into the house, grabbed something (which my memory tells me was his gun from his police days but that may be a figment of my previously established overactive imagination) and sped off in the car to chase them down, leaving me alone in the now crap-free yard.

When he returned a bit later, albeit empty handed (I guess he didn't catch up to them), he was ranting and raving about how these guys had taken advantage of a child (me) by stealing right out from under my nose. These punks were pretty much taking candy from an actual baby.

Yeah, that's right, that junk was mine and they stole it! How dare they?

That fish tank with a hole in it and that broken down trunk were my precious treasures! My inheritance! I tell you, my life would be complete if I had that trunk.

Now, part of me thinks that even my four year old self knew that stuff was crap, which is why I let them take it without even an eyebrow raise, and 35 years later I'm even more sure that those guys thought that stuff was garbage and that it was being given away. Or maybe I was thinking, "If you put a four year old in charge of a yard sale, this is what you get." And I won't even start in on how you shouldn't leave a four year old completely alone even in the name of justice.

But nevertheless, my lifelong overdeveloped sense of justice was born, fed by both my parents, and especially me.

And even though I consider myself to be a compassionate person, when right or wrong is concerned, I show no mercy. I mounted a campaign at one of my jobs against a corporate wide e-mail screener they had installed -- designed to scan all of our incoming and outgoing messages for "profanity." Unfortunately, the scanner was as zealous as Kenneth on 30 Rock working in standards and practices, stopping emails being sent to people legitimately named "Dick" and designating the word "gay" as profane. I called our Human Resources department and let them know that "gay" certainly isn't profane and it sure would be a shame if, I don't know, GLAAD, found out that our company now felt this way. The screener disappeared but I enjoyed calling myself Norma Gay for awhile after.

And witness my nemesis - a woman I run into daily at Starbucks. She's nasty, pushy, and rude. When I see her, my blood pressure rockets and I immediately tense up.

She's also a quadriplegic in a wheelchair, which, for most people with a human heart, might make a difference -- they might show a little empathy, understand that her road is not an easy one. Not me. Rude is rude.

Just yesterday I was walking through midtown, and there was a couple trying to take a picture of their kids (actually there were millions of people taking pictures, this just happened to be the scene I came across). I said, "I'm so sorry," and smiled as the mother was waving me through the frame, then I realized that what I thought she said, "No worries, come on," was actually "Hurry up, come on," and my pace slowed to that of a snail's. I think we sprang forward and fell back in the time that it took me to walk through that shot. I may not have a lot of patience, but to make a point, I can pace this three foot patch of land all day, destroying the potential for countless family memories if I have to.

I'm not proud I feel that way, but I do. Wrong is wrong. And that's just not right.

But what is right?

Damned if I know.

Having spent most of my life focusing on the wrong, I'm not sure I could identify right in a lineup. To me doing right is not doing what I perceive as wrong.

I like to think of myself as an optimistic person, and I think I am overall. I believe in the power of positive thinking, I believe that most people are good, and that you manifest what you put out there, which is why I'm becoming a little concerned with this wrong business. Apparently, what I'm putting out there is not what I want or what I think is right, but what's wrong. How is the universe, using me as an agent of change in my own life, supposed to bring me what's right with this kind of misinformation?

Somewhere Oprah cries for me. Maybe Gayle too. And probably Dr. Phil. Dr. Oz has already given up.

What do I want? For you/me/them/my Starbucks nemesis to NOT do that, that's what I want. But when you're always thinking in don't's and wrongs like I am, you lose sight of the do's and the rights.

It's like Kenny Rogers says, maybe the "best you can hope for is to die in your sleep." Maybe what I need to be grateful for are all of the bad things that AREN'T happening to me.

It's come to my mind a lot lately too as I recover from the concussion, and take steps forward and steps back. I know when I feel bad, but I'm not as good as recognizing that I feel better, and I worry that's slowing this whole situation down. I was telling this to a true optimist the other day and he actually couldn't understand me. He made me repeat it several times before he could actually somewhat understand. "But you ARE better, right? You are getting better." He's right. Overall I'm a lot better and that is very right indeed. The more I can focus on that the better but for me there's always a but -- "What am I doing wrong? How could I make this better?"

Right doesn't exist without wrong in my mind. Two wrongs certainly don't make a right, but can't we have some rights without a wrong? Can't I find a way to define the right without the wrong? Is it even possible?

It must be for that 15% percent of mystery people who have never experienced rudeness. All they know -- or claim to know, which I'd argue is the same thing -- is sunshine and happiness. Is that the best way to live? I don't know. Maybe, like everything, it's a balance, a middle ground, a place of grey.

But grey has never been my color (I'm a Spring after all). The middle ground is not a place I feel comfortable. I'm the kind who goes down swinging.

I'd rather be in the 85%. I guarantee that's where all of my friends and family are. It must be boring in the 15% -- they're probably not complaining or gossiping or feeling put upon. So let the 15% cure cancer or whatever important things they must be doing with their time. My people will be watching the Jersey Shore.

So maybe the trick for me is to learn what right is for me, and let it exist without wrong. Let myself be happy and revel in right when it happens, instead of waiting for wrong to arrive and let the other shoe drop.

And when wrong arrives, I can still give it a little hell. If I didn't, I wouldn't be me. Maybe it will arrive a little less often, since I won't be looking for it so much.

But I guarantee it still makes an appearance each weekday at 8:45 a.m. in Starbucks, in line squarely in front of Len.