A few months ago, I had to rent a car for a month. Unfortunately for me, it smelled like cigarette smoke, but it was the only one they had available, so I was stuck with it for 30 long, stinky days. As one who hates the smell of cigarette smoke, it was exceptionally unpleasant.
When I was in eleventh grade, the entire high school was summoned to the gym for what can be fairly described as an exercise in mass hypnosis.
When I was in college, I was extremely insecure. And because I was so afraid people didn’t like me, I demanded a high level of loyalty from anyone who claimed to be my friend.
The other day, I came home from work at dinnertime, and as I walked up the steps of my house, I noticed there were four guys and one female sitting on the front porch of the house next door. I was familiar with the group – not to mention a little uneasy with them. I had seen them carrying skateboards and kung fu swords, and I had reflexively made a negative assessment of them (go figure).
I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve got this funky habit that has created more awkward moments than I care to admit.
Four and a half years ago, someone gave my newborn daughter a paperback book called Let it Snow. I’ve probably read it several hundred times since then, in part because we had another child who loved the book as much as my oldest daughter.
The other morning, I sprinted three blocks in a suit and dress shoes to catch my bus and just barely made it before the bus pulled away. As I walked down the aisle breathing heavily, I passed a young, striking, African-American woman, who spoke in a high, Disney princess-like voice and asked, “How is your day going, sir?” I walked past her and bluntly said, “Not too well.”
You don’t have to look far in the church to find your fair share of male loners who struggle to have authentic friendships with other men. They know how to be in the same room with other men, and they know how to do things with them — but emotional transparency is off-limits.
The other day, someone posted a rant on Facebook in which they laid down the law about certain people who have a particular lame habit, which I shall not name here. The point is, their rant totally applied to me, and I involuntarily felt defensive.
Yesterday, my two-year-old daughter and I walked to our neighborhood Walmart, which is a block and a half from our home in Washington, D.C. While we were in the meat department, Renee noticed an elderly lady in an automated wheelchair, but the woman didn’t see us because we were behind her.
I had someone whom I refused to forgive for years. The odd thing was that I was sure I had forgiven them. I had prayed about the hurt they caused, told others I had let it go, and even made a point to build a relationship with them.
I still remember the night my friend Aaron suggested I interview three people to learn what kind of impact I had on them. I was in a men’s accountability group, and no one other than Aaron seemed enthusiastic about our doing it. I was especially uncomfortable when I looked at the interview questions, realized they were designed to elicit mostly-negative responses, and saw one question that was particularly pointed: What do you observe about my life that you find distasteful?
One time when I was in seventh grade, there was a solar eclipse and my friend Wade and I decided to use it as an opportunity to crank call the local TV station (to the millenials: “crank calling” is something you used to be able to easily do before the miraculous advent of “caller ID.”)
It’s so hard for some of us to say no. But saying no is one of the most self-respecting things we can do. We can’t be available to everyone; we can’t say yes to every need; we can’t show up for every invitation.
When I was a kid, Excedrin pain reliever had this commercial in which the actor would open her hands around her head and say, “I’ve got a headache this big, and it’s got Excedrin written all over it.” I loved that commercial – too much.
Joshua Rogers 