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.

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It’s hard for me to condemn liars when I’ve been such a liar myself
Those Libyan ‘freedom fighters’ we paid for? They’re murdering thugs
My father’s death was proof that unhappiness quickly kills a man
Mom finds 28 reasons to put phone down, pay more attention to sons
A year after surreal experience of surgery, I’m still happy to be alive
Insanity is part of being human – and we’re all potentially unstable
If you play the DC power game, all that matters is the game
The advice people need is rarely what they’re expecting to hear