confrontation

It's not a well-liked word, or concept.

Lucky me, I find that confrontation runs in my nature, quite at home in between soul and spirit. I was reminded of this once again when tonight, feeling a bit askew after leaving my parents' house, I called my mom on the way home to ask her about the tension I'd sensed from her. Turns out, she wasn't mad; her feelings weren't hurt or anything like that. Unnecessary phone call? Maybe. I might never have known the whole situation, though, if I'd just kept to my assumptions.

A few of my friends are not like this: they would rather slit their wrists than confront a potentially uncomfortable situation. At times, I wonder why I am not more like them: they usually don't have uncomfortable or awful stories about confrontations gone awry. It might be easier to live in a "duck and weave" mentality instead of taking them square on the chest as I seem genetically disposed to. Just like when, in a game of laser tag with my high school graduating class, I snuck up on some jocks and literally just stood there while they plastered me with shots. Why? For what? I could've spent the whole game tucked in a corner or something. Never have been able to figure that one out.

This much I know: confronting things doesn't always lead to an absolutely smooth ride. On the contrary, it stirs things up, gets things moving. Whether or not the shaking and the stirring moves things into a comfortable place is not always known. But at least circumstances aren't acting on an inert target. Or maybe it's that moving around, confronting things head on, just makes me feel better. At least I know what's hitting me.