I played a tennis match awhile ago against an amazon-like woman who wore her anger like the too-tight tennis dress she had on.
I tried to talk friendly. “Wow it looks like you’ve been somewhere warm!” I said admiring her tan.
She glared at me. “No. No place,” she said emphatically. “I just do this for tennis.” indicating a self-tanner.
“Have you played long?”
“Awhile.” Scowl.
We played. She scowled more. Gave terse answers to my attempts to get to know her. Told me I was flat-out wrong on a line call. She got mean.
She scared me. Honestly!
I started praying while I played “Lord what is going on with this woman?” This is crazy. This is stupid soccer mom tennis, not Wimbledon.”
“Hurting people hurt people.” I heard in my head. Then I realized it wasn’t anger she was wearing, but shame. And sadness.
After the match I tried once again. It turned out she was just back after maternity leave. I’m sure she had been up with a baby and was sleep-deprived. It became clear she was feeling fat and ugly and not at all “herself”.
I remember those hard-to-feel-beloved-when-you’re-so-cross-eyed-tired-and-barely-have-time-to-shower days.
It made me wonder how often we mistake shame for anger. We see the battle fatigues someone is wearing and miss the tattered t-shirt of pain hiding beneath.
