Me, angry? No, not me.

I don't know how my friend and I got on this topic, but we were sharing angriest-you've-ever-been -with your-spouse stories. (I'm sure the conversation had nothing to do with current reality.) I remembered this story that is well worth repeating, not as a slam to my husband but because it wins one of Singapore's most memorable moments award.

Perhaps some background will shed some light here. Until about the age of 22, I was truly under the delusion that though the rest of humanity might struggle with moments of rage, I was not among them. Ever calm and never ruffled. So I thought. I took a hormonal imbalance and a broken engagement to free me from my illusions. Anyhow, the point of this is to say that with my delayed emotional reflexes, admitting anger can be a good think...

It was a Sunday night, within a few months of our move to Singapore. I truly don't remember why I was angry. It was just one of those times when it was perfectly clear to me that if Jim didn't do ___ or stop doing ___, I was packing up the kids and going back to Texas. The girls were finally down for the night, and I was determined to get out of our house. There simply weren't enough doors to slam in there. But where to go at 8pm? I don't have a car. I don't know the city. Taking a taxi somewhere certainly only causes more stress... Then I remembered there was a new shopping center I had been meaning to check out called Mustafa. We lived in the 'Little India' part of Singapore and this center was reputed to have great bargains--6 stories high, plenty of space to rant and stomp. That's the ticket-- I'll go there. I set off with stark determination.

I should have taken notice of the sardine-sandwiched tour buses that were lining the streets along my path. The closer I got, the denser the crowds became. What I didn't know is that Sunday night's in Little India is Indian men's time--when all the Indian men gather from all over Singapore. Where is the epicenter of activity? You guessed it-- Mustafa. The 'old' me may have turned back, but not now. I was going to master the store. In an effort to avoid the mass crowds on the road, I turned the corner to cross a field. It too was full of men sitting down in groups on the grass. I didn't care. Get out of my way-I'm coming through! Finally the store was in sight and I made it across the street in old-Atari-Frogger style.

The 75% of the men that I thought were in the open field were actually inside the store. You think Wal-mart has narrow ailes and employees that don't know where thing are? It's Macy's compared to Mustafa. Wide-bodied shopping carts, piles of misplaced and unwanted stuff in every row, the ka-ching ka-ching of cash registers, and a veritable anthill of men...me the lone foreign female. Every obstacle became a foe to conquer as I began getting physical with making my way through the aisles. Still unwilling to admit I was desperately out of place, I walked the length of all 6 floors that night. And when I left Mustafa, I was even angrier than when I left home. For one who usually held it all together, I remember feeling shocked that I could really be so spit-fire angry.

On the way home I started wondering what Jim was doing-- has he gone out looking for me? Has he called the authorities? Will he be waiting outside the door? Spying our apartment entrance from the gate showing no signs of search and rescue. I unlocked the door, and there he was, his electric guitar blaring. I'm sure he'd said a prayer for me-- that I would be so miserable I would have no where to go but back home!

P.S.- Jim and I are not currently experiencing any signs of marital stress. (Next time hon I'll redeem myself and tell a Jim-is-the-hero story!) And later I learned that Mustafa is open 24 hours, and 5am makes for a much better shopping trip. But I still held an emotional grudge against that store till the day we moved.