That's what I said. OK. That's what I said in my head. What I said out loud was, "How nice".
I am such a weenie. You have no idea. I let people get away with any number of evil things and hateful comments because I don't like hurting people's feelings.
Mr. Man has no such problem. When I told him what completely ignorant and horrible thing someone I know said to me this weekend, he said what he always says when I've wimped out. "Well, you know what you should have said..."
The thing is, most of the time I care about what the other person is thinking and what they will think later when they are lying in their own bed obsessing about my nasty comment. The idea that I might make someone cry or feel bad about themselves absolutely kills me and even though I often think of the perfect come back, in most cases I will not dare utter it.
It's for this reason my stomach hurts a good ninety percent of the time and I draw devil horns and warts on all the magazine cover girls on my coffee table. Color me all repressed.
Part of the reason I am icky, phony sweet is because of my OCD. I'm terrified the last thing I say to someone will be mean. That's also why I end every phone conversation with "I love you", which is fine except when it's a business call. Then it's just weird.
The biggest reason I am such a wimp though is my Southern Belle upbringing. While my brothers were encouraged to spit and scratch and skin anything that couldn't run fast enough to escape their shot gun blasts, we girls were raised differently. "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all," my parents said. We girls were taught to smile pretty, keep our opinions to ourselves and marry the first man with a decent job that we could trick into thinking they wanted to marry us.
About the meanest thing you will ever hear a polite Southern woman say to you is, "How nice". While that may not sound harsh to the untrained ear, you should first consider what they are really saying.
"How nice" loosely translated means, "I hate you with a white hot hatred that is so intense, I must also direct a great portion of it toward your inbred, knuckle-dragging parents that fornicated to make you. I spit on the day your inebriated father paid your astonishingly unattractive mother the sum of twenty-five cents and a bucket of fish bait to have sex with him. I wish you nothing but poverty, acne and ugly children for as long as you live. Oh... and I mean that in the most Christian way."
Copyright © 2004-2005, Sherri Bailey
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