Control freaks rule, whether we like it or not

I've decided to take a break from my travelogue for today so that I might wax philosophical, and possibly even mildly curmudgeonly. Anyway, I'm just chilling here in Brookings, OR for the day and there is nothing much new to report. Oh, we did drive into California this morning and it wasn't sunny at all, and the redwoods were enshrouded in foggy mist. But, it was nice anyway. And, tomorrow we are heading out in the direction of Crater Lake, which should be very nice by all accounts. I'll let you know.

But, today, I want to talk about control. This stems from a conversation Wendy and I had yesterday. What we concluded is the whole of history is about control, if you think about it. You name it, it's about control. Education, religion of the organized sort, policing, the military, and our homes. Parenting is all about control (some of us wish there were more of it, judging from the behavior of some kids today), and even a domestic relationship involves assorted forms of control, in which one person will attempt to be dominant over another. In that context, control can sometimes be a nasty business, which might involve even domestic violence, which is a hideous manifestation of behavior and not an area I want to visit here.

What I want to talk about is a more pernicious form of control than even raging might suggest itself as being, and that is passive aggression. How the conversation came about is that we were driving along and reminiscing about our past lives which included, in both cases, having once been married to passive aggressives. In fact, both our first spouses were in that behavior realm. It's not a nice one.

My first wife didn't write the book on passive aggression, for she inherited the tome. Her father, I believe invented it. Ever smiling, he ruled his family with an iron will, but they didn't realize it because he was such a 'nice guy.' And, his wife and his kids didn't realize that 'Dad' always knew best, and always, always got his own way, and he never once had to raise his voice. My dad was a raging sonofabitch, and that I could handle because I always knew what to expect. My first wife's father used a more lethal weapon in his control arsenal -- guilt. You never, ever wanted to 'disappoint' dear old Dad because he always means well.

Well, Wife #1 learned well at his tutelage. Again, rarely was a voice raised, rarely did the smile leave her face, but her bite could be as deadly as that of Cleopatra's asp. I spent a number of years wreathed in guilt, even when I'd done nothing wrong (which was actually true -- sometimes). When we broke up I, of course, had to be the wronging party because my ex was such a 'nice' person. She was a frail and pretty little thing of whom it could not be said butter would melt in her mouth. She always did the 'right' thing, after all.

What amazed Wendy and I as each recounted their domestic tale, was how similar our stories were. The blessing is, we both attempt to eschew both passive aggression and control as much as is humanly possible. It works.

Next time, as long as I haven't bored you, some more travel tales.