A conflict-free life is a lovely daydream, isn’t it? I had an image when I wrote that previous sentence, an image of people drifting along arm-in-arm, in walking costumes with full skirts or suits topped off with a bowler, in a park, with apple blossoms fluttering about them, nodding to others with a gentle smile, their small silent dogs trotting alongside. I don’t know why the image should be so Victorian, except that the historical period was an apex of some kind of wishful English upper-middle-class denial and jam-packed with pictures of cherubs. Anyone who has ever actually had a kid knows there is a very short period when they are adorable cherubs, or rather many short periods, interspersed with barf and arguments.

But I digress. Sometimes I think all I have to do is open my mouth to be in conflict with someone, somehow. A few weeks ago I talked to an upset acquaintance who was going through a licensing program and was utterly overwhelmed with all the end-of-program requirements. Because I have taught student teachers, I said to them, “These programs all seem to be set up that way, to absolutely overwhelm you with work at the end.”

“Why do they do that?” the person exclaimed.

“No idea. It’s dumb. But all you can do is put one fucking foot in front of the other–“

“Don’t swear at me,” they said. I apologized three times for using the word “fucking,” but they walked about of the room, and they have been stewing ever since. A friend reported they said I told them to “suck it up.” Yesterday the person went off on a public rant in my presence, loudly, about how harsh people have been to them (I was not the only target, which was nice).

Since I didn’t swear at them and didn’t tell them to suck it up, and since I know they are not mentally well, you would think I would be easy in my mind, but no.

I prefer conflicts in which I have earned the opprobrium I receive.

Because in general, I don’t mind conflict, and I can be a jerk. I would cheerfully be out there in the park with the apple blossoms, mind you, but I would be exaggeratedly avoiding their little unleashed dogs and judging their uncomfortable outfits, and I would own up to it.

Maybe later on I’ll go parade in the park, smiling gently at strangers who will avoid my eyes or ask me what the hell I’m looking at. I will be entertained by their outfits. (First, I have to take my chunky cat to the vet, where people I don’t know will tell me he has gained weight and needs his teeth removed. At least it isn’t the dentist, or my teeth.) I’ll take my umbrella, because the weather seems determined to disoblige today. If only I could fit into an Edwardian walking dress without looking portly.