How Rude

Last weekend I attended a writing workshop where I learned amazing things. Some were even about writing.

But the most striking insight was not about penning books or essays. It concerned the way the workshop leader (I’ll call her ‘Lee’, because that’s her name) conducted herself when people were being, I guess, a tad irritating.

Let me go back a step.

I have a tendency to treat other people’s minor offenses as affronts to civilization.

The guy who takes the stationary bike right next to mine despite every other one being available, then makes a call so loud I can’t hear my podcast on radical acceptance.

The person who constantly CCs me on irrelevant emails.

The woman in my weights class who sighs dramatically after every. Single. Rep.

My toolkit for managing such incursions on my peace of mind has included: glaring passive-aggressively, raising my own blood pressure, and ranting to any third party who will validate my indignation. I lose my equanimity. And for all this, I achieve nothing. They continue unabashed and unbothered.

What might be a better strategy?

I could be Zen and ‘let them’ and accept whatever the thing is. It’s a trifle—let it go. But this is surprisingly hard to achieve while whipping yourself into a mental frenzy.

I could ask them to stop. But (a) who wants to spend their energy trying to intercept every little niggle and (b) I learned compliance as a child, and there’s no Duolingo for assertive language.

Which is where the workshop comes in.

Lee repeatedly asked us to limit our answers to one or two sentences; the group was large, there was much to cover, we had one day. But every person spoke at length.

She was also interrupted while speaking—not by a raised hand, but by being talked over.

Consequently parts of the workshop had to be cut.

I realize people were excited. Still, I felt exasperated on her behalf. How rude.

Yet, Lee clearly did not think, how rude. Over the long day, wrangling a full class, and having flown interstate at dawn’s cruel crack, she never once lost her cool. Not a single eye roll. Not a trace of edge in her tone.

How did she do that?

I didn’t feel I could ask this during the Q&A. But I’ve pondered what I observed in the days since.

Lee carried herself like someone entirely secure in her role as leader—never needing to prove anything, assert authority, or correct anyone.

She spent no energy trying to manage others. She was present—not reacting but responding to what people said or did. Attending to whatever landed before her.

And then I recognized what I had seen: a person focused only on what she could control. Which was herself.

A small shift of perspective that meant nobody was ‘wrong’; nobody had to change for her to remain composed. She held all the power—it resided in her own behavior.

I have that same power.

I can calmly, non-huffily move to another bike. I can filter my emails. I can start up a conversation with the sigher (I’ve found befriending people makes it very hard to dislike them). Nobody else has to change a thing.

I already know this. I just keep forgetting.