In my rash youth, there was nothing I loved more than a good verbal fight. I didn’t have the clothes, the popularity, the looks; I hadn’t yet found my confidence, impeccable style, grace and humility — all I had were my words. I relished a good tongue-lashing, and prided myself in always besting my challenger. Sometimes, when I felt a fight was brewing, I’d play it out to myself (as I’m sure many have). I’d imagine not only what I’d say, but what the other person’s likely reactions would be so that I could have the perfect comeback ready. I’d envision how it would all start, and, more often than not, if the argument never started itself, I’d give it the ignition t it needed.

Why did I love it so much? I did usually come out on top, and that delicious, fiery hot taste of success when you know your opponent has nothing more to fight with was irresistible. It was like a sport to me, and since I was never athletically inclined, it was my only real victory over another.

It’s been many years since my last all-out-word-war, and over time I realized that few things are worth the energy a real argument takes. Especially the ones that last days — it’s generally all you can think about, planning what you’ll say next, what you’d like to do to that numbskull, and carefully avoiding any internal discovery that you may not be 100% right. That’s not to say that you should let everything slide or let someone walk over you, but you should really weigh whether it’s worth the effort. I mean, you could save that energy to pump some iron, or write an epic ballad, or go shopping or something.

I’ve also recently realized that it truly takes two people to start a fight. Which is both obvious and infuriating. “Hell no!” you might say, “that betch started it. She came at me like a spider-monkey and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening.” Startling imagery aside, in fact I’ve found that just as I can stubborn my way into a “win”, I can ignore my way out of a potential confrontation. I’m not championing passive-aggressiveness, or ignoring things that bug you until you spew them out in a pyroclastic flow all over innocent bystanders. But again, it’s a weighing of your options — yes, I can tell that you’re ticked off here, and you’ve thrown out a couple of juicy jabs at me that I could return. I could ask what the hell your problem is and find out that you think I eyed your man or something and we could really go at it in a fury of texts for the next few hours. Yet if I don’t take the bait, if I ignore the fact that you want to pick a fight with me, if I continue to be my lovely and gracious self and wish you safe travels and a Happy New Year, then I get to go on with my merry life. Have a nice mug of cider and watch some bad TV. Rock out to some Journey.

It’s only through the crippling humility of love that I have ever accepted defeat and been willing to make the first move after a fight. A fight is only worth pursuing if you can spare the hours away from the person you’re mad at. And this late in life, if you’re willing to hold out for a fight with me, I have to wonder if you are worth it. I’m jealous of my time, and if you’re just going to waste it then why would I make the effort to give you any?