Venting, Tchaikovsky-Style

Tonight, I found myself in one of those moods again. You know, the ones that make you want to break everything around you, or run around screaming, or bawl your eyes out like a three-year-old. Or a combination of all three. But seeing as the house around me isn’t mine (and thus neither the things around me), the first really wasn’t an option. And having scarred my poor boyfriend quite enough with my mood swings already, I decided the second and third weren’t so wise either. 

So, I picked up my violin to play some Tchaikovsky. Naturally.

I’ve been doing this for years now, venting my feelings through music. And no, not of the heavy metal variety. For me, letting my negative emotions flow into creativity certainly seems a lot healthier than the alternatives that some people take; vandalism, drugs and violence, just to name a few. And before you protest, yes, I do know that these actions are often influenced by difficult family circumstances. I know I have been most fortunate to have parents who could afford to send me to expensive violin lessons and take me to professional concerts.

Actually, this reminds me of a conversation I had with my boss at work a few weeks ago. Having just had the shop window broken and the nearby bus stop smashed for the umpteenth time, we came to this simple conclusion:

Instead of wasting thousands of dollars every week repairing broken windows, painting over graffiti and replacing defaced property, why doesn’t the government put the money toward more free youth programs? More sports clubs, music groups, dance classes, whatever. Just so that bored or angry teenagers (like myself, at times) can find a creative outlet for their emotions. The result? More education, less crime. It’s a win-win situation, isn’t it?

 

But I digress. So, by the time I’d poured my heart and soul into Tchaik’s Violin Concerto, Monti’s Czardas, and Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, I was feeling a whole lot better. And I’d made some beautiful music (or perhaps that’s just the boy flattering me again) in the process.

Take that, hormones!

"Would you like some manners with that?"

Holidays, eh? It seems a rather odd name for my current thirty-hour working week. The term becomes more ironic when I consider my uni contact hours over this past year: fifteen per week. But I have no problem with the long hours (I’m an impoverished med student about to embark on a six-month journey around Europe. Money is good). I do, however, have a problem with rude customers. 

Let’s start with the little things. You would think it is common etiquette to give a little smile or nod to the person behind the counter, no matter how brief and insignificant your interaction (you know, acknowledge their presence in some way, shape or form, because it is the POLITE thing to do). Yet, it astounds me how a cheery ‘good morning’ and ‘how are you’ on my part can be met with cold silence, or how a ‘thank you’ and ‘have a good day’ can provoke an ungrateful scowl or ill-tempered grunt. And isn’t it a little sad when more fifty-five-year-olds need to be taught their please’s and thank you’s than five-year-olds?

Do these people derive some sort of perverse pleasure from spreading their grumpiness? Do they enjoy being perpetually angry at the rest of the world? Yet they seem to be the ones who frown upon the younger generation of Goths and Emos. Seriously?

Then, we have the openly hostile customers. I like to call them the “active volcanos” (as opposed to the “dormant” variety above). I have had the pleasure of greeting quite a few in my time, both as a waitress and sales assistant...

Me: “No sir, (for the tenth time) the two-for-one deal only applies to the pastas.” I made that quite clear before you ordered. And again while you were ordering. It’s also written on the board. Right in front of your face.

Man: “That’s f!@#ing ridiculous! I’m not paying for these pizzas.” (Storms out)

Me: “I’m sorry, we don’t sell lottery tickets to minors.”

Boy: “But it’s for my mum, she’s just outside.”

Me: “Sorry, you’ll have to ask her to come in and buy them herself.”

(Boy leaves, re-enters with mother a few moments later)

Mother: “Are you f!@#ing happy now? Makin’ me get outta my car? You can’t even sell a f!@#ing lotto ticket to a boy? What the f!@# is he gonna do with it?”

Me: “I’m sorry ma’am, but that’s the law.”

Mother: “Don’t answer back to me, you stupid b@#$%!”

Wow. Is she going to react the same way when the liquor store refuses to sell her underage son booze?

Me: “Sorry, your magazine hasn’t come in yet.”

Man: “What do you mean it hasn’t come in yet? I’ve been getting them here for months! Ritchie’s next door got the same magazine in yesterday!”

Me: “Sorry, the order must be running late. Perhaps you can get the magazine at Ritchie’s just for this week?”

Man: “That’s just outrageous! You know what? Forget it. Cancel my order. I’ll go somewhere else!”

Later that day, he called the store to apologise for his behaviour. Apparently, he was “having a bad day”.

Ok, I appreciated the apology...but really? Does the “bad day” excuse cut it? Is it even an excuse? Everyone has problems; everyday has the potential to turn into a bad day, but only if you let it.

Yes, dear customer, life might suck for you at the moment, but don’t take it out on the rest of the world. Grow up and put on a smile. You might just get one back. You never know, that might just be what you need to pull yourself out of your bad day.