It’s hard for me to love other people. It’s even harder for me to love myself.
I was driving home from work Monday evening and I had just angrily hung up the phone. A woman had called me from a company that did some work at my house a few years ago. I didn’t like the way the company was handling its business with me, but it was nothing personal with the woman.
The thing that annoyed me wasn’t her fault. She was just reading a script. She was doing her job. But I was in a bad mood — and I took out my frustrations on her.
I wasn’t nasty or rude, but I certainly wasn’t kind or loving.
As I drove the rest of the way down I-459 toward home, I stewed in my irritation, but my annoyance quickly turned toward myself. I wasn’t upset with that woman or her company.
I lectured myself about being a hypocrite. I berated myself about my unwillingness to live up to my values when it wasn’t convenient — when I wasn’t in the right mood.

It’s a very old cliche, but it’s true: Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt
Personal growth feeds a romance, but lack of honesty destroys love
Night of panic and little sleep shows chaos of finding my way
How do we often know things which we shouldn’t really know?
In the middle of world’s madness, happiness makes me think of her
Conservatives don’t understand liberal groups — and vice versa
Without growth on similar paths, two people drift apart, love dies
For good or bad, we default back to what feels most familiar to us