I like to beat the bag like it owes me money. Sometimes it feels savage, sometimes it feels like more effort than it’s worth. And while many might think there’s catharsis in such activity, I feel like doing it for that reason alone is dangerous . . . because even when you do it for the physical aspect, when it gets you dialed into a meditative state, makes you sweat, makes you want to win at everything — it still trains the brain to know what it’s like to punch something. And sometimes when you’re dealing with a particularly difficult person, part of you is curious about what that feels like.

Of course, for me that’s very rare. I tend to be cool, and when things heat up I’m more likely to walk away than lash out, because the skin of my temperament is so thick its lineaments do little to betray the scars of my youth; the rifts and cracks long left behind now barely show, to the point where I sometimes question their continued existence. At this point, they’re fading quickly into the past. That’s where they belong.

There are days and then there are days — those days when you happen to find the one person who is going to test your patience. My thinking is, it’s best to have a deep, deep well of patience if you hit a bag on the regular.

No issues here, and no regrets. My well is so deep.