In one of my other posts (Love extravagantly) I expressed sorrow about how much anger there is out there. I almost became one of those “angry” ranters last Wednesday morning, the day after the PA Primary election.
I was in the gym, minding my own business, peddling a stationary, recumbent bike. Another patron was on the bike next to me when a portly gentleman approached him.
“Did you vote today?” he asked.
“Yeah. I went in before I came here.”
“I’m for Trump. He tells it like it is.”
“I don’t think he can win the general, though.”
“Are you kidding? He can beat that fat pig Hillary. No way would I vote for her!”
That fat pig, Hillary. My instinct was to turn to him and ask, “Do you own a mirror?” But I didn’t. My mother trained me better than that. Anger begets anger. Nothing good comes from answering an insult with an insult of your own.
Instead, I concentrated on the book I was reading and tried to ignore the ensuing conversation. But the comment nagged at me. Whether one supports a candidate or not, one’s reasons should center around the issues and the candidate’s stands on the issues.
I have yet to hear a commentator talk about what a male candidate is wearing or how the male candidate laughs or whether or not he’s overweight.
I stewed about the fat pig comment for many minutes afterward. In fact, I had a better work out because of it. I peddled harder and faster, imagining that the peddles were Mr. Portly’s face. Sorry, I know that’s not nice, Ma. But I didn’t start a row. That’s something anyway.