On the virtues of patience.

Ever since I can remember till my teens, I was chastised at home for low levels of tolerance.
Not that one was the short-tempered, loud, abrasive kind.
But was not a child gifted with the ability to grin and bear it.

Very soon, the smile would drop.
And an attempt would be made to change the topic of conversation gently.
I could also get up and slink off if served vegetables.

Over years, this was drilled into me.
Repeatedly.
And again.
That I had to be patient.
And that to not be, was rude.
And crass.
So you had to endure, whether you liked it or not.
To not endure or to ask why, was to be anti-social.
Un-child-from-a-good-home like.

The ability to suffer was Christian.
And the patience to grin through it, Catholic.

And believe me, I did change.
Over the years, I became what could well be called docile.
Evolutionary, my dear, you could say, as a man matures.
He puts the child behind him as he puts on the years.

My father, I believe, was one such.
A short-tempered youth who grew up to be an adorable gentleman.
(Though the frown, the handlebar moustache and the forearms bulging from his folded sleeves said otherwise.)

Today, I am worried.
Because my Hyde is trying to find his way up through the capillaries.
Maybe that explains the sudden rushes of blood.

Which makes me wonder, why should patience be a virtue?
As long as you do not take a hockey stick and beat up people till the slimy roots of their idiocy spill onto the streets, why should you keep grinning?

Tell me.
Why agree to like something you don’t?
Can’t you just not comment?
Why sit and listen to some joker espouse views you do not share?
Can’t you just get up and walk away?
Why reach home with a boot full of road rage?
Can’t you show the fool the finger and reach home happier?

Why be forced through a gathering you don’t like?
Why drink whiskey if you don’t like it?
Why perform favours you don’t want to?

We do all the above to be considerate.
To be known as nice people.
To belong.
To be accepted.
To be liked.
To be good Catholics.

And if you put an end to all this, what then?
Nothing much, really.
You’ll find that nobody would even notice.
You might not be enshrined as the paradigm of socially accepted behaviour.
But you will spare yourself a few blood vessels.
Have a few less ulcers.
And on the whole, be a much happier man.
Selfish, maybe.
But a lot happier.

The next kid who comes to my house and picks up the TV remote will get a long stare and a walk-away.
I won’t hit him with the bar that came off the window.
But no attempt shall be made to pacify him as I split a few arteries either.

I don’t think patience is a virtue.
Maybe my second childhood and senility have arrived earlier.
Convince me otherwise.