It is always important to “own” your mistakes.
And only after that try to find a silver lining
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Not in Louisville, Kentucky, it’s not. As I was leaving an event the other night, I walked outside with a group of people including a friend and one of the co-hosts, the lovely Tammy York-Day. I decided to walk Tammy to the multilevel parking lot nearby where we both had parked –as any Southern gentleman would be expected to do. It was dark out and as we peered into the parking garage it was eerily quiet. I had parked on the 2nd floor and Tammy told me she had parked on the 4th floor. “What does modern day chivalry command?” I wondered to myself. OK. I didn’t really wonder that to myself. What I really thought to myself was “Oh, Sh*t! Am I expected to go all the way to the 4th floor with Tammy and to pretend like I am going to protect her?” I didn’t say this out loud, of course. Just thought it. And then I thought, “I really don’t want to do that. It is two extra full floors up and it is late and I am a little scared to go up there with only Tammy to protect me.” I didn’t say that out loud either. My mind immediately went into overdrive to quickly come up with an alternative plan. One that was still within the realm of chivalrous but not overly or absurdly chivalrous. Instead of walking toward the elevator I started up the stairs. I let Tammy take the elevator. It would be harder, I reasoned, for Tammy to expect me to walk up two extra flights of stairs than I needed to for my car. And I figured since her car was on the 4th floor, Tammy would prefer the elevator and she did. But my real save was I yelled out to Tammy as I said good-bye, “I promise to wait here on the stairs until you get to your car and I will listen for sounds of scuffling or screaming. If you get mugged or attacked just scream as loudly as you can.” I continued explaining my chivalrous plan, “I will be able to hear you because a scream from the 4th floor of the parking garage will carry to the 2nd floor where I will be with my car. Then I will start screaming and from the 2nd floor my scream would be heard at the street level,” and hopefully someone would hear and come to the rescue. Someone other than me, that is. It was a brilliant, fool-proof, and yet still chivalrous plan. But as we stood at the stairs and elevator, it became obvious to me Tammy was wondering what would happen if she was attacked then and there. I knew exactly how to calm her worries. I reassured Tammy that even though I wasn’t a tall guy or especially strong guy or even an overly masculine guy, I did have a big vocabulary and high emotional IQ and could use sarcasm —biting sarcasm, if necessary —and “shaming,” shaming from childhood parental wounds, if necessary. I explained I had a powerful “Disappointed father” look I could use on any attacker. And combined with devastating sarcasm, I had a powerful “one -two punch” (metaphorically speaking) that would knock back any attacker who was foolish enough to try to harm her. Although she didn’t say anything, I could tell Tammy felt safe and secure with a Southern –and chivalrous– gentleman so close by as I stood in the stairwell about a dozen feel away explaining everything (so I wouldn’t have to go all the way up to the fourth floor with her). As I waved goodbye and promised to wait to see if she screamed from the 4th floor, Tammy knew one thing for absolute certain: That chivalry was far from dead. That chivalry was, in fact, alive and well and flourishing tonight —at least here in Louisville, Kentucky for Tammy York-Day.
But now when I am offended, I imagine my eyes going dim and transforming into Super Guru –and forgiving the offending person. And then turning into the Incredible Hulk and mauling him
There we were. Standing in my home office. Rebecca had initiated the conversation to bring resolution to the issue of who was most to blame for us going to bed sulking last night that led to 5 consecutive hours this morning of short matter-of-fact sentences, no ‘love’ or even ‘L’ at the end of text messages, pained pouting and the inability to smile at one another –although admittedly Rebecca had tried breaking the tension with a smile at around 10am but I stopped her “c’mon, let’s get over this silly thing smile” with a stern look that said,”Not this time. An example needs to be made. That was my favorite show last night you kept me from watching. And this cannot stand.” Rebecca read me loud and clear and dropped all pretense of believing a casual reconciliation for last night’s transgressions were within reach. There we stood. At that quiet and serious marital face-off. Who would blink first? More often than not, it is me (that is to say about 99.7% of the time). But not today. And Rebecca knew it. She could tell we were standing in the middle of one of those rarified historic moments like when Cicadas return or Haley’s Comet passes. There was a cosmic tinge in the air that made one feel like the universe was about to crack. Rebecca slowly opened her mouth and sighed, “I…” She faltered momentarily as she struggled to form the sound of a soft “a” that begins the word “apoligize.” But she got it out. Then seemed to recover as she finished the entire sentence, “I….apologize….that you got angry with me last night.” Rebecca exhaled. Relieved it was finally over. Or so she thought. “What?” I blurted. “You…you are sorry for my bad reaction? That’s not an apology. That doesn’t count,” I reasoned. “You can’t, technically, apologize for someone else’s bad reaction to something you do. I mean…You can only apologize for you say or do” I paused for effect. “You see what I am saying?” Rebecca knew she had missed the mark…and was willing to try tried again. Digging deeper into her guilty conscience than maybe ever before from an argument involving watching television together, the apology began tumbling out . “I apologize…for making you angry” I vigorously started shaking my head “no” but Rebecca rebounded with “and my part in causing that.” Oh my Gosh. O!M!G! I ….I was completely overwhelmed! And touched! And touched deeply enough that at that exact moment everything seemed right in the world again. And it seemed crystal clear to me that God not only was real…but was standing somewhere behind me in my home office –where he was mouthing the words for Rebecca to repeat so that my over-sized hurt from my super-sized overly-sensitive feelings could be suaved over –finally. Like a mommy who realizes her 5 year old crying son just skinned his knee and almost broke the skin and that she has to pretend like it might require a trip to the emergency room to pacify the son and make him feel loved. Except instead of the son being 5 he is 51. And God worked His magic. His grace. All was right again. I was able to forgive Rebecca even though she feel asleep during my favorite show last night and was snippy when I kept asking her if she was still awake (even though I already knew she wasn’t because I held my hand in front of her face for over 30 second and she never said anything). She doesn’t know it yet. But at the end of my next text message to Rebecca, I plan on ending it with a capital ‘L.’ For love. Heck I may just spell out the whole entire word ‘Love.’ I feel like after Rebecca’s soul-searching apology for last night’s TV debacle, it is the least I can do. And that, all things considered, I am a pretty darned lucky guy.
Airports have lots of food to eat that neither tastes good nor is good for you nor is affordable. You don’t get that combination anywhere else I can think of. Airports are a great place to buy books you will never read. And would never have bought if you hadn’t been stuck in an airport. Airports are places where you can shop for things you don’t need and would otherwise never consider buying –and pay twice as much for them as you would anywhere else if you did decide to buy them for some inexplicable reason. And yet buying these things in airports still makes you feel a little bit better on the inside. Airports are in-between places. And no one likes to admit they are in an in-between place. Especially when they are at an in-between place that looks like an in-between place. At the departing airport you see people who look just like you that you are leaving behind, and that makes you sad. But you also sense that the place you are going is going to be a better place –just by looking at the people in your airport. And that makes you happy. But when you arrive at your destination you can tell that the new place isn’t going to live up to your expectations. And you can tell by looking at the people in the arriving airport —who also look just like you do. And that makes you sad again. Airports are places where women don’t always wear make-up. And men don’t notice because men get to scratch and pick in otherwise off-limit areas when they are at airports. And secretly believe if they wear shorts, white socks and black dress shoes in an airport nobody can really see what they are wearing. Not even the women still wearing make-up. Airports are a good place to pick up fashion tips if you want to know what looks good when you are exhausted, irritable, impatient, bored, sweaty and have just over-eaten —and are about to lose your cover as an asshole. And airports are a terrible place if you want to plug in and recharge the things that normally help prevent you from being an asshole. And airports, best of all, are a place you can feel almost invisible as you watch tens, hundreds, maybe even a thousand people pass by as you as you pass judgment on their most human follies and foibles and momentary inadequacies. While feeling certain that no one else in the airport would even consider doing that to you. As you quickly look down to make sure you aren’t one of those guys who is wearing shorts, white socks and dress shoes and thinks he’s invisible. I often struggle to reconcile my progressive values with my love of shopping. I don’t want to patronize companies whose policies are at odds with the environment, LGBTQ rights, fair treatment of workers, and so on, but I also love a good bargain. (My ultra-liberal husband gets weekly updates on which businesses we should avoid based on a wide variety of criteria, making it almost impossible to find an acceptable retailer or gas station!) But fortunately, it turns out that there is a retailer which is ‘good and good for you,’ where we don’t need to sacrifice our own needs for those of the community – and it even manages to make great profits while espousing progressive values. In any head-to-head comparison with Walmart, and Costco comes up on top regarding employee benefits & wages, ratio of executive to average worker pay, overall customer satisfaction, AND profit. Meanwhile, there are all the stories lately about Walmart forcing employees to work on Thanksgiving, spending a fortune on lobbyists while paying employees poorly, and making taxpayers pay to compensate for those lousy wages and huge executive bonuses, not to mention the pitifully small fraction of a percent the Walmart heirs contribute to any kind of charity, and the Scrooge-like requests for employees to donate canned food to their equally underpaid colleagues. Isn’t it great to be able to feel morally superior while getting a great deal on everything from toilet paper to tires?
I throw on a sports jacket and pack my laptop bag and pause to wait for Rebecca to tell me to have a good day. But Rebecca isn’t on cue. I now worry I am about to lose my 5 minute advantage and make noise moving things around in my laptop bag hoping to wake up Rebecca. She stirs a little but still doesn’t wake up. I sigh loudly (over my fake frustration from having to move things around in my laptop bag –which is realy just a pretext to awaken Rebecca so she can finally tell me to “Have a nice day” before I leave). I have to admit some of the sigh was real because I had now lost my entire 5 minute advantage from waking up on my own. Finally, Rebecca, raises up and looks at her clock and asks me in a perturbed voice, “Do you realize it is 2am?” I looked at my clock. Ummm… Apparently when I woke up on my own I noticed the minutes but forgot to look at the hour. Actually it was only 1:58 am now (not 2am as Rebecca insisted), but I didn’t see the point in correcting her since I had mistakenly gotten up not 5 minutes early — but 5 minutes and 5 hours early. I didn’t know what to say except “Well, I didn’t know it was 2am.” I quietly got back in bed and when my alarm went off at 615am, I turned it off and over-slept my usual 5 minutes. And told myself there were just too many variables involved in trying to be 5 minutes ahead of schedule all day long — and that it is sometimes better to just stick with what you know.
Instagram. Snapchat. Twitter. Is there any thought or feeling we can’t communicate these days? What we need next is a social media tool that allows us to post an image of those fleeting moments each day when we are not thinking or feeling anything at all. Call it BlankInstaTweetSnap. It will allow us to post a blank image of the nothingness we are thinking and feeling so others can view it —and, hopefully, “like” it. Perhaps our non-thinking and non-feeling moments will mean something to others who view it and bring meaning to our blank moments. With this new social media tool we will be able to eliminate ever having a waking moment that isn’t worth sharing with the rest of the world.
Sometimes in life, “Less is more.” But when it comes to social media, “Nothing is the new less.”
But I am not in a bad mood either. It is what I call a “Pre-pissed off” mood (PPO). I am happy and calm but I get the feeling someone or something is going to piss me off soon — so I go ahead and prepare myself mentally and emotionally for that happening (in case it does). I don’t like being caught off guard when someone or something pisses me off. This way I prevent that from happening. But I am left feeling on the verge of being pissed-off. I prefer to think of myself as vigilant today. Which does make me a little irritable. Really “anticipatorily irritable.” At least I will be ready today when something irritating happens. But other than that I am having a good day.
That is, until we started boarding. We were about to exchange business cards — you know that moment when you meet someone new and you each sense that the other is possibly of the same or higher status than you —and worth not only meeting but keeping track of. But instead of asking for each other’s business card, our chummy conversation was rudely interrupted by a loud voice over the speaker announcing all Gold Members of some exclusive credit card could board now. We paused at the interruption and smiled at each other before trying to resume our conversation –but that lasted only a few seconds. Then came another thunderous announcement. This time that Zone 1 could now board. My new friend chirped, “Oh, that’s me.” And added, “Are you in Zone 1?” I looked at my boarding pass and couldn’t find my zone but had a sinking feeling I was assigned to a different — and lesser zone— and that our newly formed friendship was more fragile than I thought. “Hmmm.” I mumbled. Acting like there must have been some sort of mistake with my boarding pass. I shook my head and shrugged. We shook hands and he left. No business cards were requested or exchanged. All I could do was stare at the ground while my former friend strode confidently up to the ticket counter to check in and board our flight. I was too ashamed to tell him I was not only NOT in Zone 1 –but was, in truth, assigned to Zone 5. In fact, after the announcement for boarding Zone 4 was made (in a noticeably softer and almost apologetic tone), there was a long delay before they finally announcing, “All other Zones may board now.” That was me — “my Zone.” There were only a handful of us. We sized each other up quickly. No one seemed to want anyone else’s business card. But then something strange happened. Even though I didn’t feel like asking for anyone’s business card (and no one wanted mine), I started to feel that these were “my people” –whatever Zone number we had been assigned to. And we needed to stick together. Especially against the assholes who think their Zone is better than ours. I started to resent the guy I was talking to earlier who was boarded in Zone 1. Who the hell did he think he was anyway? He wasn’t better than me—or better than any of us in the “remaining Zones.” He was just an ordinary guy who maybe got a few more lucky breaks. That’s all. In fact, he started to seem like he was mostly a poser — a fraud I didn’t trust—and I didn’t even want his business card anymore. Or to be in his boarding Zone. I am OK just the way I am . Maybe it just took this flight boarding experience for me to realize it. And so was everyone else I was waiting with who was still hoping to board the plane and not get bumped. We looked at each other again. We may me in the “remaining Zones” –but that was OK. We weren’t defined by our boarding Zone. As far as we were concerned, we actually felt sorry the poor bastards who “needed” to board in Zone 1 to feel OK about themselves. They must be really insecure. Then the airline ticket counter person lifted the microphone and announced my name. She explained to me —but in a voice loud enough for my people to hear — that there had been a mistake with my ticket and that I was allowed to board now ahead of everyone else in the “remaining zones.” I was all alone again. And thought about asking for the business card of that Zone 1 guy again —if he saw me get on the plane ahead of everyone in “the remaining Zones.” |
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