Ramblings of the bad cop.

It seems in most crime shows there is a good cop and a bad cop. One who makes nice with the suspect and the other whose very prescence is a threat. While the good cop still might believe that the suspect is guilty, he is able to proceed professionally, treating the suspect with understanding and grace. Meanwhile the "bad" cop is straining at the leash, hoping it will break so he can rip apart this suspect who he already is convinced is guilty. I realize I have gone through most of my life identifying marriage partners in much the same way; the "nice" spouse and the "not nice" one. In my early years I even wished that the "good" grandma could be married to the "good" grandpa. My mom, to my young eyes was the good parent and my dad was the harsh one. In my own marriage I've oft referred to Joe as the good guy, and myself as, well, you get the picture.

This week he proved it.

If you've perused any of my previous entries you might have been able to discern that I have issues with bitterness (among other things, sigh). Even if I love you dearly; you hurt one of mine, I will, to put it kindly, dislike you. Indefinitely. If you know me at all, you might also know that while I can be civil, when pissed at you I will not go out of my way to engage you in conversation. I am vocal about this and my family have often beseeched me not to carry their offenses, but there is a huge part of me that wants someone, anyone, to mete out justice on their behalf. This is not a trait I am proud of, as I am certain I often hurt and trample others feelings, sometimes without realizing it, and would hope for mercy and understanding from them, but I realize again with no great surprise that I am the bad cop.

So I find myself at a backyard party, and one of "those" people are at this gathering. I politely greet her with Joe before sitting down next to him. My husband is charming. He talks with ease, able to compartmentalize his emotions. He comments on the woman's poor swollen feet, and then excuses himself to speak to the hostess of the party quietly. He sits back down, not next to me, but on the other side of this person that I am not wanting interaction with, placing her between us, and draws me into conversation. A few moments later the hostess returns and hands him a bottle of scented lotion. He helps the woman lift her pregnant feet to a chair fills his palm with lotion, and proceeds to hand the bottle to me. He meets my eyes across her curly head, and smiles. I am uncomfortable, feeling panicky, but I fill my hand with the scented cream, lean forward and begin massaging it into the foot nearest me. I feel my anger towards this woman evaporating much as the lotion is. I do not like this and try to muster it up again, but it's gone, dammit. I can no longer treat her with indifference, thanks to Joe's meddling. We begin to talk easily, comfortably. How can you stay angry with someone who's pleasure is evident as you rub their feet?

And so another crime was prevented by the intervention of the good cop. It's true.

Mercy triumphs over judgement.