I’ll admit, I hold grudges. Not big grudges, and not like, ruin a friendship grudge, but I nurse small wounds longer than I should. My husband calls them my golden nuggets. Tiny little pieces of rock that I carry around in my soul. They don’t weigh a lot, but every now and then, I bring them out to shine them (read: emotionally obsess over them until my husband tells me to relax and go to sleep).
Recently, somebody said something to me that stung. Not a slap, just a sting. It bothered me, and I talked to my husband about it. I said, “Am I overreacting to this?” (something else I do—I am a chronic overreacter. Sadly, knowledge of this trait does not diminish it.)