I don't snap.
I just don't.
I've been happy, angry, sad, sleepy -- basically any emotion or function you could place on one of the seven dwarves, or a smurf (except handy) -- I've been there.
But I've never snapped.
If anything, my emotions are typically muted based on some hard lessons I learned in my early 20s. No one to blame. Some regrettable emotional meltdowns. Didn't snap.
This is the story of the one time I did.
I was 30, which means I should have known better. I didn't.
My sister, my wife and I were on our way to visit some relatives in Lexington, Ky. Somewhere along the way, some miscommunication occured, and we accidentally sparked off a fight between this family. As a result of this, the plans for the trip were overhauled significantly.
Although I didn't think we had done anything wrong, both sides were blaming us, and it was weighing on me.
Strike one.
It was a cold, dreary winter day with a gray sky as we made our way down the Interstate. I was experiencing some heavy travel anxiety at the time, and my sister within the first few minutes of travel was expressing relatively negative emotions about the whole trip.
Strike two.
My wife was expressing dissappointment in both of us for the way we were behaving.
Strike -- ooh, check swing.
I asked if we could pull off at the next exit and stop at McDonald's. I was hungry, and also feeling like I needed to cool off. Calm down. Meditate over some french fries.
The stop was barely 20 minutes into our trip. There was protesting.
Just a bit outside. The count is at 2-2.
We stopped, and as we were making our way out with the food, my wife opened up with her frustration over the tension and attitudes that had been on display thus far.
Strike three. Caught the batter looking.
I, Ben Fields, who was once dubbed "Even Keel Fields" by an intern because of my reserved nature, lost it.
I snapped.
Snapping is a weird thing if you've never experienced it. Pure, uncontrollable rage is an odd sensation. But make no mistake it is pure, and uncontrollable. As is how you choose to express it.
In my case, I kicked the lower part of the glass door at the exit.
It shattered.
I was a bit surprised, to be quite honest.
Instantly the rage was gone, and I was left feeling rather, well, dopey.
Thirty-years-old, and I put my foot through a McDonald's door because, for whatever reason, the combination of elements surrounding my day were just right to make me snap.
My wife looked at me with both concern and horror.
"This trip is over," I said. There might have been an expletive in there somewhere.
I saw my wife's gaze shift to equal parts concern and amusement, because, if you've ever heard me talk, I am incapable of inflecting menace in my voice.
The last tingles of rage dissipated through the tips of my fingers, and my shoulders slumped. I knew what I had to do.
I turned around, went back to the counter and asked for a manager. Within a few seconds, she arrived.
"I broke your door, I need to pay for the damage," I said.
"Oh, did it slam or something?"
"No, I kicked it out, and I need to pay for it."
Her mood shifted from helpful to concerned, but not for the reason I expected.
"It wasn't anything we did, was it?"
I immediately felt so sorry for this woman. That she would jump to a conclusion that they had screwed up and it caused me kick out a door made me realize the types of problems she must have to deal with every day.
"I SAID NO PICKLES!" Splash. Hot coffee in the face.
"No, it didn't have anything to do with you."
"Well," she began. "It's happened before. We use Boyd Glass, and it costs around $108."
I actually gave her my business card.
"Send the bill here, give me a call, and I'll send in the check," I said.
The trip was, indeed, over.
I drove my sister back to my parent's house, and sat in the living room describing what I had done, like a 16-year-old.
"And what, exactly, did that accomplish, Benjamin?" asked my mom. Yep, full first name, definitely 16 all over again.
She then went on to explain how she and my father were friends with the people who owned that particular McDonald's. Of course they were.
Scratched from the lineup for the next game. "Family issues" cited to the media as the reason behind the manager's decision.
I paid the bill. Ironically, the door I paid for is now gone, as the family my parents know tore down that McDonald's to build a totally new one.
My wife points that out when we pass it on the Interstate.
And that, friends, is where snapping gets you.
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