“Good, better, best. Never let them rest. Until your good is better and your better best,” my father would make me recite often; a constant reminder that I was never good enough.
“Patience is a virtue…, ” my mother would wag her finger at me implying that I was somehow sinful.
I gave up being virtuous long ago.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve always been leery of “good” people.
I knew a woman once who was touted by others as a guru – saintly sweet, full of love and light – you know the kind. She often rented space in the same office building where I was working at the time, and for some reason, I kept my distance.
Call it instinct.
Or maybe, it was because I didn’t want her judging my lack of virtue.
One day, as I approached the building, I heard a distinctly female voice raised in anger, coming from inside the lobby. I hesitated, not wanting to walk into the middle of a fracas, and listened for distinguishable voices. I caught the low, gruff tone of one of the landlords, and the higher, more nasal, and still calm voice of his partner. Whoever they were trying to discuss matters with was having none of it – her voice like piercing shards of glass was bouncing off the walls, and as it did not seem like it was going to subside, I had no choice but to push open the door and disturb the scene.
Red in the face, foaming from the mouth, was the “guru”. Unforgiving of my untimely entrance, she turned her wrath on me: “Could you not have waited?! Does no one have any sense of boundaries around here?” Then she stormed out the door, leaving three brow-beaten people in her wake.
“What was that?” I asked looking at my befuddled landlords.
“Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I think.” chuckled one.
“Apparently we did something to disturb her,” stated the other. “Nothing that would provoke that amount of anger, I should think, but there was no talking about it with her.”
I had no reasoned response. After all, she was the purported paragon of virtue, certainly not me.