Ins and Outs of Control

When I brought all my worldly goods out to Cali last year I put quite a few of them into a storage unit. I rent a room, and it's not big enough for all my stuff -- not comfortably, anyway. I shopped around, trying to find a place in a safe area that wasn't too expensive. I'd been here three months at the time (had to make a trip back to Florida, rent a truck, and drive my stuff out here), and I'd driven Gwen to work many times. Many times.

As I muttered about how much these various facilities wanted for the smallest units, Gwen said, "Have you checked out LM? I think they've got the best rates around."

"What is that? Where is that?" I asked.

Gwen shook her head, gave me the "bless her heart, she's dim but she means well" smile, and said, "It's the company that's on either side of Lauterbach & Associates. You pass it every time you come to the office."

Oh.  That LM. Geez.

Gwen went on about how I was a writer, and one of the most observant people she knew, and how darned funny it was that I'd never noticed a storage business, especially when I needed one, blahdoshutthehellupblah.

I took her to work in the morning (you couldn't hold a grudge against her) and went over to ask about LM's rates. And, as an aside, their name really ought to be L&M. LM just doesn't roll off the tongue and seems wrong to me. But, whatever. The woman said a 5x10 (their smallest) was $59. a month. It's not climate controlled, but that is the best deal around. I rented one.

As part of the whole process of handing over my credit card, understanding what declining insurance might mean (that I save $8. a month -- no further thought necessary), and being given a number to operate the electronic gate with, the woman explained to me the importance of keying out. Out. The importance of keying out. I'm not repeating it nearly as many times as she did.

She explained to me that if I followed another car in through the gate they'd just opened, that was fine. But if I followed another car out through the gate they'd just opened, that would be very bad. Because, and she was rather strident about this, if I'd keyed in, but then didn't key out, their computer would show that I was still on the property. And, when they closed for the night, it would look as if I were there. And then someone would go looking for me (to throw me out, though she politely didn't put it that way), and if they couldn't find me they'd have to call, etc., big pain, etc. It was very clear to me how important it was to key out. I got it.

I go to my storage unit frequently. I get things out, I put things in, I basically treat it like a closet, albeit one that takes 10 minutes to drive to. One time there was a man at the bigger unit across from mine. He was nice, not an ax murderer, and wanted to sell me a hand made butcher block. It was lovely but way out of my price range. Anyway, for the most part I'm alone when I go. But one day I happened to drive in just as someone else had keyed in and opened the gate. I followed them. Without keying in. Because, of course, that wasn't the important thing to do. Right? You can see where this is going, I'm sure.

After I picked up whatever it was I went there for, I headed out. I got to the gate, entered my code, and instead of the sickly sweet tone that goes along with a printed message of, "Thanks for your business, Mary! Paid in full for this month," I heard a sort of reverse of that tone and the message said, "You are not recognized. Please see manager in office." Of course I entered my code again. Tell me you wouldn't do the same. The machine calmly repeated itself. I didn't feel calm at all.

There was nowhere to put my car while I walked to the office, unless I backed up and parked down one of the aisles of units. And I was in no mood, old unrecognized/being sent to the manager's office me, to be helpful to the next person. I put the Saturn in park and left it right there. In the way. No, of course no one else had to get out. But I'm sure you can picture my internal sputtering about how it'd be just too darn bad if they did.

I went in, I very nicely told the woman (a different woman than the one who'd lectured me originally) that the gate refused to open, and she said, "Well, did you forget to key in when you arrived?" She should've known better than to attack the memory of an obviously perimenopausal woman. But I remained outwardly calm. I said, "I didn't forget. There was another car going in and the gate was open."

She tsked at me. TSKED. AT ME. By that time I was talking to God, (silently, of course), asking why I had to suffer fools, and rude fools at that, and that if He knew all, he surely knew that nothing was ever going to teach me patience. Ever. The old hag (see what tsking at me will get you when I describe you later?) said, "You always have to key in or the computer doesn't know you're here. So how can it know to let you out? You can leave without entering your code, but you always always always have to key in."

I opened my mouth to tell her what the other woman -- the pretty, young, intelligent, caring woman -- had explained so sweetly, and to point out that very reassuring part about not getting locked in overnight by accident, but what came out was, "I'm sorry. I obviously remembered the instructions exactly backwards. Will you open the gate for me now?" I even smiled. She gave me the schoolmarm attitude. That "you should've known better and this'll teach you" dismissive nod that I could only hope would hyperextend her neck and cause a pinched nerve (yes, yes, yes, all these bad thoughts go on my permanent record -- I know).

I walked back to my car, hurrying to get it started and get through the gate that she'd immediately opened (on purpose, to make me rush?). And I drove home preoccupied by my reaction. That woman had to let me out. Even if I'd been nasty, even if I'd told her all about how the other employee is deranged and making up fake rules that offer a false sense of security, even if I'd told her what she could do with that tsking tongue of hers that was far from polite. She would've let me out. But I did the smart thing. I did the most expedient thing. She royally annoyed me, but I let it go. I typically don't do that. Sure, I regret my outbursts after the fact. But I react.

I think most people would consider this ability to suck it up and let it go to be a good thing. It wasn't the first time I'd wanted to react strongly and had kept it bottled up (I had a big scare a few months ago, one that motivated a friend to give me self-defense lessons, but I refused to escalate the situation that scared me). But here's what I thought: Waaaah! I'm getting old! Seriously. But then, THEN! I realized that if my reaction to my reaction was to whine like a baby, just how old could I be, after all? And I felt better.

Were you expecting there to be a point? Sorry. I'm half talking to myself here on this blog, just to think out loud a bit about what's bugging me. I recently regretted a rude reaction of mine to something someone did. I wondered why I could control myself with some condescending stranger, but lost my temper with someone I love. Now I think I have the answer. You can only really get to me if I care about you. That wasn't always the case. Anyone could push my buttons in the past. So I suppose I'm finally maturing (hey, when you don't have kids, it's something you put off doing -- though few people will admit that).

My reaction to this revelation is, again: Waaaah! So, I'm good. ;-)