Pride goeth before the smack down

BY SOPHIA ALDOUSS-E Staff Reporter Ever have those moments where the rug is swept out from un¬der your righteous indignation and your snobbery gets body slammed into repentant sheepishness? Maybe it’s just me. It’s certainly not Rush Limbaugh, but that’s beside this column’s point. It’s not the first time my ego got its moral superiority on, and it probably won’t be the last. However, this particular case of which I am speaking is exceptional, because it nursed a bur¬geoning grudge that I carried with me for several months. Allow me to start at the beginning. Last July, I was ready to embark to the Gorge Amphitheater for a Sound Garden and Queens of the Stone Age concert. While I am not a huge Sound Garden fan, I have nothing but eternal love for QOTSA. You won’t hear them on our regional radio stations, as Clear Chan¬nel delights in feeding us the exact same loop of sugar laden pop, and lukewarm, Hallmark country music all day every day, but if you like rock n’ roll and quirk, these guys have it in spades. I have seen them live before and they are water tight in their playing and guaranteed to rev up an audience. Go out and buy their records now, kids. If you play them backwards, you’ll hear messages to drink your Ovaltine spiked (just kid¬ding. Or am I?). So as you can tell, I was super excited. I wanted the break, I wanted the release, I wanted the dirt and the sweat that comes with dancing your tail off outside with hundreds of other di¬sheveled music lovers (for those of you who are having Wood¬stock flashbacks, breath deeply, and not of what you have just rolled). To make a long story even longer, my ride bailed on me, or so I thought. My own car was in the shop at the time, so I was without transportation to said awesomeness. I was ticked, heated and just plain angry. I felt betrayed, not to mention $85 lighter in my wallet that I shelled out for tickets. Did I act like a mature grown up, go see this person, and explain why their supposed actions hurt my feelings? Man, I wish I could say yes. Instead, I got my passive-aggres¬sive on and complained to my mom, my best friends, everyone but the actual person I was having the issue with. In my virtu¬ous ire I thought to myself, “I shouldn’t have to explain a thing; this person knows what they have done to me (insert dramatic head toss, if I had the hair to go with it).” After keeping this wound fresh and open for too long, I fi¬nally decided to stop being a lily and tell this person why I was angry. State my truth and let the chips fall where they may kind of thing. Which is what I did. Turns out, the grave injury that had been done to me was just a miscommunication, and this person ended up not going to the concert at all. He thought I said we would rendezvous at a certain place; I thought he had left me high and dry. Since both of us were stupid and didn’t call the other, unnecessary assumptions were made. After I was made privy to the details, I burst out laughing. What else can you do? Besides apologize, that is. I did, we made up, and went our separate ways. In truth, if the friendship had been that important to either one of us, I would have communicated my inner-turmoil over the matter with this person much sooner, and they would have called me to ask why I hadn’t showed up and why I was being such an evasive, stereotypical female. But the only behavior I can police is my own, and I should have pulled myself over a long time ago. Good thing I was able to get off with just a warning this time around.