Reactive Snark

I've been seeing more doctors lately than I've ever cared to, but it's just a part of mid-thirties life. Something innate bubbles to the surface every time I enter a medical facility.  Until the other day, I couldn't explain the urge to scowl. It's the same irritated feeling of "you vs. me" that I get while driving. For some reason, all other cars on the road instantly become the enemy - an annoying obstacle to be conquered, or at the very least, dismissed. Oh, you're accidentally in the wrong lane and need to get off the highway RIGHT NOW? Sorry, that's your life, your problem. What's with that? Why do I become insta-bitch in certain situations? That person could be rushing to a burning house of kittens.

This week at the fertility doc I figured it out. I suffer from reactive snark. Certain people in certain professions deal with the general public all day every day and as a result, suffer from proactive snark. I likely would too if my day consisted of scheduling mishaps, medical billing carnage, and the general lack of a fuck given by many people.

When confronted with such unearned snark, I lob it back like Maria Sharapova. And that's not O.K. because it's getting worse. When I walked into the doctor's office, I steeled myself, ready for the snarky ice water to the face that can be a receptionist's "greeting." I had my RBF all primed as I stomped to the desk.

A smile. And sweet, sweet competence. And adult conversation lacking any presumption of idiocy due to my classification as "new patient." I melted like a dopey schoolkid in the face of The Beibs. So while I still suffer from reactive snark, I'm receiving treatment from the good guys. It's nice to know I can still be disarmed.