Grant Me the Serenity to Accept My Inner Volcano

There's a commercial on a radio sports channel I listen to, and the stupidity of the jingle so offends me that I literally stab at the off button every time it comes on. The base idiocy of the ad not only makes me angry, it's making me angrier every time I hear it. I mutter. I talk to the radio. I shake my head. I question the prospects for humanity.

And I think about volcanoes.

Most of the volcanoes I've seen in person - in Hawaii, Mexico, Guatemala, Italy - have been a letdown, frankly. They were scenic but dormant, meaning I had to use my imagination to picture spewing lava, billowing ash clouds and rivers of molten flame. Which, now that I think about it, is probably best left to the imagination. I suspect most ancient Pompeiians would agree.

I've been thinking about volcanoes more of late, not because I'm hankering to see one in action, but because I'm growing increasingly attuned to the workings of my inner volcano. That's a metaphor, by the way, not an intestinal confession. I think it's fair to say, I'm generally regarded as a calm and relaxed person. I don't yell at people. I don't pick fights. I don't hold grudges. I conduct myself with relative maturity. (Though I refuse to test any of those statements against my behaviour as husband and parent.)

This is why I'm fascinated and perplexed by my inner volcano. There is a certain amount of magma bubbling away in there, waiting for the pressure to build just enough to blow the plug off the caldera, at which point ash, smoke, steam, lava and rivers of flame will scorch everything in their path. OK, maybe that's a bit dramatic. But I do get angry sometimes, and I wonder where that anger - substitute impatience, irritation or annoyance - comes from and whether I should plug it up or let it out.

Recently, during a long cold snap, our car broke down. We have been members of a well-known automobile service off and on for many years, so I took out my membership card and dialled the number on the back. It turned out we had forgotten to renew our membership about six months earlier. No problem, I said to the friendly customer service representative, just charge it to the credit card on file. Everything was fine.

Until she told me there would be an extra $40 charge for a roadside use fee. I politely asked what that was, and the cheerful customer service rep said it was a surcharge for getting roadside assistance the same day you sign up for a membership.

Sulphurous fumes began bubbling. "Excuse me," I said, "but isn't the annual membership fee what the roadside assistance is for? Why am I being charged an extra $40?"

"Because," she explained, with extreme pleasantness, "at the time of your vehicle's breakdown you were not a member."

With the lava gurgling, I expressed my extreme dissatisfaction with this policy. She offered her deepest commiseration and asked if there was anything else I needed. I asked to be put through to her manager. When I had him on the line, I said the same things. He offered the same commiserations.

The charge stayed on my credit card.

I think I first became aware of my inner volcano a few years ago. I went into a national chain coffee shop near our house, a place I would often go to work or read. They have a row of banquettes near a fake fireplace that, during the winter, can be warm and inviting. On the afternoon in question, however, there were "reserved" signs on every good table. The café was nearly empty. After ordering my coffee, I asked the server if I could sit at a banquette because I found them conducive to working.

"They're reserved," she said.

"Well, yes," I replied. "But I guess I'm wondering for who. I mean, there's no one here."

"It's reserved for big groups that come in. Like, running groups or whatever."

"When do they come in?"

She shrugged. "They don't always come in, but if they do it's around 5:30."

I looked at my watch. It was 4 p.m. "OK, I'll tell you what. How about I sit there, and if a big group comes in I'll move right away."

She gave me a bored stare. "Like I said, it's reserved."

Lava began to bubble but I decided to contain it. I sat somewhere else. A few weeks later, I went back to the same café. Feeling like I needed a really perky coffee, I ordered a dark-roast coffee with a shot of espresso.

"Oh, right," said the server who'd refused me the banquette. "A Red Eye."

I'd never heard that term before. "Sure," I said. "If that's what you call it."

She made the drink and then rang in a price that was just under $5. I gave her a $10 bill and was calculating a tip when something occurred to me. "Excuse me, but isn't a medium coffee a couple of dollars and a shot of espresso a buck fifty?"

She looked at the menu board behind her, then turned back to me. "I guess."

"So why are you charging me nearly $5?"

She shrugged. "All I know is that what you asked for is a Red Eye. There's a button for it on the till."

I looked at the coffee sitting on the counter between us. There was no containing this eruption. "That is ridiculous. I've decided I don't want it."

"What?"

"I've changed my mind. I think that's an unfair practice."

She said fine and removed the cup.

"But," I said, "I'd still like a medium coffee."

She eyed me, then moved away and came back with a medium coffee.

"And," I added, "I'd like a single espresso on the side."

"But you're just going to add that to your coffee! It's exactly the same thing!"

"I might add it," I said. "I might not. I haven't decided."

"Fine," she said. "But I'm going to share this with the owner."

She went off in a semi-huff and made my espresso. After I'd paid, I thanked her and turned around. The first thing I saw was the banquette section with "reserved" signs on all the nice tables. What the hell, I thought, I'm already the devil in her eyes.

I sat down right in the middle of them, moved a sign, spread out my books and laptop and coffees, and delicately poured my espresso into my coffee. I haven't had as good a cup since.

The point of detailing my possibly juvenile but highly satisfying behaviour is this: I am learning, for better or worse, that getting older and gaining experience does not always bring equanimity. And maybe it shouldn't. Wisdom and insight are not the same things as patience and placidity. Yes, patience is a wonderful thing to have, but maybe it's a tool to be used for certain jobs rather than a coat of paint you put on top of everything.

A common piece of pop psychology wisdom is, "Don't sweat the small stuff," which is but an echo of the more famous Reinhold Niebuhr aphorism, "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Sure, I understand the reasoning. Don't worry about inconsequential things you can't change. If someone is rude to you, or if a bureaucrat mindlessly follows a stupid rule, or if a family member is needlessly insensitive, then the rationale is to just let it go. Fair enough.

It's the third clause of the Niebuhr aphorism I question. How many of us genuinely know what we're capable of changing until we're smack in the middle of it or, more commonly, it's already over and done with and we realize that we did, in fact, change something?

I like to think I have become better at recognizing what are trivial battles and what are battles worth having. I'm also learning that a small battle is not the same thing as an insignificant battle. A fight against a small injustice or a minor stupidity can still, to my mind, be worth the effort. Because who's to say where the line is? What if we don't sweat the small stuff and it morphs into big stuff? If we don't at least occasionally sweat the small stuff, if we simply accept the things we think we can't change, then nothing changes.

Just because it might look like there isn't much at stake doesn't mean nothing is at stake. What's worse: getting upset and speaking out about a minor injustice, or not letting the world know that what transpired wasn't cool?

I'm not sure there's a right or wrong answer, only that I've been on this planet for more than five decades and I'm still searching for that balance. I like to think my inner volcano is turned down, with just enough lava on hand in case of an outbreak of stupidity or rudeness or injustice … even (or especially) if it's my own. But I'll keep it so the top doesn't blow off, spewing lava and ash and flame all over the place. No one needs to see that. A low simmer will suffice.

Unless someone tries to overcharge me for coffee again.