What a Heavy Door Taught Me About Anger

There is a heavy door at a building I go to sometimes, and for reasons I still do not fully understand, it irritates me more than a door has any right to.

It is not broken. It is not dramatic. It does not refuse to open completely. It simply asks for more force than I expect. You reach for the handle thinking the door will move the way most doors move, and instead it holds its place for half a second longer than your mind has budgeted for. Then you pull again, harder this time, and the door gives way with that stubborn slow weight that makes you feel as if the object has personally decided to make your day less convenient.

The first few times, I barely noticed it.

Then I started noticing myself noticing it.

That is usually where the lesson begins.