A Rejection Observed

He sat silent in a deceptively sunny class, a quiet unassuming blond with a marked lack of self esteem or notable presence.

Darryl Bauer was assigned to the seat directly behind me in what was our grade school homeroom class, and although I didn't consider him a personal friend, I wasn't oblivious to the fact that few had chosen to befriend him at all. I was nice, if casually disinterested, pleasant, if even in a noncommittal way. As kids, maintaining your coveted place in the social hierarchy was as imperative as breathing, and as a popular kid myself, I was admittedly not quite willing to validate Darryl by being overly attentive to him myself.

But I did pay attention to what had happened to him that day.

There are kids like Darryl in many classrooms in life, overlooked, underestimated, on the periphery of acceptance during a time in their development when being noticed and accepted is of paramount importance. They're the kids who don't get picked for the team, or for whom a ride on the bus is an excruciating lesson in loneliness, aside from the attention they might receive as result of a random insult or an outright assault. What would they do, what would it take, to be accepted?

For Darryl, it was the supposedly magical interest he received from Angela Cincinelli the Cheerleader that promised to put him on the map.

From an objective perspective, which was of course the luxury of those not tormented by demons wrestled by the nondescript Darryl's of this world, the sudden attraction was suspicious, at best. What could the popular and effervescent Angela, in spite of inherent homeliness both of face and spirit, ever see in the likes of Darryl? When a girl like Angela feigns interest in a guy like Darryl, one would be wise to pause for thought. Could she be sincere? Did she really like him? Or was there an underlying joke underway here, a game that only a select few were aware was being played? Say it with me everybody: yes.

As it turned out, Angela's interest in Darryl was intended simply to enable her to advance her ego in the most cruel and vicious manner. The Latin root of "cru" in the word "cruelty" is "blood", and the literal meaning of the word then is "to spill blood." And although there was no actual blood shed by this quiet unassuming person as a result of Angela's actions that afternoon, I'm fairly confident that he nurtures a wound, no matter how faint or painfully forgotten, to this day.

Angela, in spite of being decidedly unintelligent as well as unattractive, was a master of PR. By affiliating herself with other, more attractive and popular girls, she imagined that she had become desirable by proxy. She could do a cartwheel, she could make the squad, she could ridicule kids like Darryl without flinching! Fascinated, like a cobra before a mongoose, we often thoughtlessly elevate the aggressive Angela's of this world to a position of envy or admiration, regardless of whether or not there is anything about them that is genuinely unique or valuable to warrant the attention we provide.

Angela was going to have her 15 minutes of fame, and if it was to be found at the top of a cheerleaders pyramid or upon Darryl's broken emotional back, it didn't matter. In spite of her bland face covered with freckles, the large unbecoming mole on her overweight thighs, or the transient disarray of her shockingly red hair, she was notable for being rude, recognized for being brassy, and acknowledged because she accepted no less.

Angela was going to promote herself regardless of the expense to another, no matter what the cost.

It was warm outside, and summerish. With the end of the school year approaching rapidly, it was all we could do to contain ourselves and focus on the matter at hand, which was getting through just one more day . Restless and prone to intermittent bouts of chaos anyway, Angela's antics that memorable afternoon served to create a frenzy of laughter and unprecedented glee for everyone who witnessed it.

And Darryl, of course, was the unwitting source of entertainment.

Flattered by her attentions, and completely oblivious to the fact that he was undoubtedly a topic of heady conversations and unkind plans, Darryl mistakenly made his unrequited crush public by bringing Angela a gift that day. A small, delicate, and thoughtfully given ring.

Believing her to be sincere in her fawning expression of interest in him, he had painstakingly wrapped the small gift box, the paper lumpy, the tape askew. One can sadly envision him carefully folding the paper the night before, deep in thought as he wondered excitedly about his good fortune, the quiet overlooked kid now the center of attention in a world populated by cheerleaders and jocks! What would she say, what would she think, when she received his romantic and thoughtful gift?!

As it turned out, it most definitely wasn't "thank you."

I became aware of the interchange when Angela, obnoxious and insensitive as ever, boldly announced her gift to the entire room as she opened it. Apparently Darryl had slipped it to her quietly while passing her desk on his way to his own, and his attempt to remain discreet was not to be respected.

"Oh look, " Angela all but screeched, the teacher having momentarily left the class, "Darryl gave me a ring! Why would I want this?!"

The class, looking around in wonderment, thrilled to watch the show, erupted in raucous laughter.

"Hey Darryl, " Angela now called out in a sarcastic sing song voice from across the great divide, "did you want me to be your girlfriend?!"

Darryl, now mortified at his desk and red faced in humiliation, stared intently at the floor. He did not move, he did not cry. His hands folded before him, he fixed his gaze and bore the laughter in silence.

"Oh my God," Angela announced scathingly, "like I would want to be your girlfriend!"

The laughter was now more of a roar, and I suddenly opted to forfeit my stance as a popular kid myself to defend the hapless Darryl. Turning around sideways in my seat, I said in plain view "just ignore her, Darryl," the unspoken rule that seventh grade students only call each other by their last names being broken to communicate my genuine concern. "Who cares what she thinks!"

Turning to glare at Angela, I called out with all of the emotionalism of a 12 year old hero "who do you think you are, Angela? Would you want someone to do that to you?!"

The laughter subsided momentarily, the focus on Darryl's humiliation being redirected now to an anticipated fight between myself and Angela. As I poised myself to take the bullet, Darryl looked up at me for a moment with a fleeting glance of appreciation. My heart was pounding, and I recall having felt almost disassociative in my awareness that I had now become a moving target myself for having chosen to become involved. The decision to defend Darryl was an impulsive one, and although not carefully considered I knew it was the right thing to do. Remaining sideways in my chair, my eyes locked with Angela's while I momentarily patted Darryl's forearm in a sympathetic fashion.

I was most certainly not going to be on the cheerleading squad now, and not simply because I couldn't do a cartwheel.

Resenting my having interrupted her show, Angela regarded me angrily as she redirected the focus of the hunt back to her prey by marching across the classroom and flinging Darryl's ring out the window onto the lawn below. The fact that the school janitor was in the process of mowing the lawn on which the ring was now lost made her gesture all the more outrageous, and the laughter in response to this was deafening.

Looking around the room that afternoon at what were sure to be future perpetrators of various crimes and misdemeanors, I regarded the scene with dismay, although I'm sure my thoughts were not quite that philosophical at the time. What I do recall feeling was an overwhelming empathy and sadness for Darryl, a relative stranger that I had known for many years.

When the teacher returned to the uproar minutes later, and the situation was disclosed, Darryl's shoulders slumped further and his head lowered even more when the teacher himself laughed as he called out the window to the janitor to stop the lawnmower. Sending several boys outside to search for the ring, which was later found to have belonged to Darryl's grandmother, his humiliation was finally complete.

I have sometimes wondered what ever became of a kid like Darryl or a girl like Angela, and I would be dishonest if I said that I hadn't hoped fate had corrected this injustice by allowing her to grow up unsuccessful and alone while Darryl had lived happily ever after. It only seems fair, when you consider the magnitude of what was done that day.

It had been a cruel and unnecessary rejection, and it was most definitely observed.

The Futile Life of Sister Marie Paul

What if you woke up one day and realized that your life had been meaningless?

What if you had nothing substantial to show for your efforts? Had you created something tangible that others could enjoy? Was there a great work of art, some relevant thoughts recorded for posterity? Had you made such an impact that people had primarily positive recollections for having known you? Had you left the world a better place?

I was thinking about my grade school music teacher, Sister Marie Paul. She had sacrificed her life for an ideal, refusing to marry or have children of her own as she became the intangible, theoretical "bride of Christ." Living in a self imposed ascetic environment, her entire life was defined by walking with her head down against the winds of change that never moved her, a violin case in one hand and a folder full of music papers in the other. And there she would walk across the playground blacktop each dreary morning towards the school that didn't appreciate her, to teach
ungrateful kids how to play an instrument or sing on key.

And what did it matter, anyway? She had produced no Beethoven's, there were no Sarah Brighton's in her class (excluding me, of course :-)So what exactly had been the point?

And then there are the countless faceless Helen's to consider as well. They join the PTA and make homemade cookies, raising mediocre children and living mediocre lives. They have virtually no outside interests to speak of, unless you consider those weekend soccer games or bringing their silent husbands another can of beer while they watch TV just before they rush off to do yet another load of laundry all alone.

Eventually the kids grow up, the PTA doesn't need them anymore, and their husbands then trade them in for a newer younger model, just like a used car. Helen is now left to live what is left of her existence in despair, thinking about what if's that never were, because she was far too busy considering the needs of everyone else around her to realize that she was important, too.

What lessons can we learn from these observations? How can we avoid the futility of becoming a Sister Marie Paul or just another Helen?

Live. Travel. Create. Take pictures. Write it down. State your opinion. Make a difference.

Because in the end, if you had nothing relevant or substantial to offer, life didn't really matter, anyway.

The Power of Independent Thought

And now, from the Profound Thought files comes this article regarding forming our own opinions while avoiding the psychological manipulation of relational aggression, and the lessons learned therein.

Relational aggression, incidentally, can be defined as any behavior that aims to manipulate the web of third party relationships in order to hurt a particular individual. Spreading rumors, gossip, lies, telling secrets, eye-rolling, and exclusionary tactics all aim to promote cruelty through the social networks. Janie and Susie don't like Mary, and if you are nice to her, then we won't be nice to you!

Only the weakest members of a social network, and those most in need of validation, succumb to these manipulations (or initiate them for that matter) while the strong do survive although they may find themselves eating lunch alone when they refuse to play the game.

That having been said, below is the situation where I was first directly introduced to relational aggression tactics, and how I chose to handle the situation...

Long ago and far away in a land I would like to forget, I worked in a highly political retail environment, where the social hierarchy was as clearly defined as that which may be observed amongst competitive chimps.

There were two subdivisions in this hierarchy, comprised of one clique led by an inbred, cross eyed Italian with a lisp named Candy, the second group being comprised as those I would identify simply as Other.

Being a fairly independent type myself, I gamely crossed between clique genres on a regular basis, not wholly comitted to either one or the other elitist waring factions.

Recently divorced, confident, and busy, I more often than not stood bemused during my assigned mundane tasks at the Timex watch tower (not to be confused with the Jehovah's Witnesses Watchtower) labeling those items that took a licking and kept on ticking while simultaneously watching human nature unfold around me.

Never one to be unsocialable, I accepted invitations from Candy's Popular Clique to sometimes go out after work or get together on the weekend, but I was always subtly aware that they were trying to sell me something, or make me be something, that I didn't particularly care to be. I always strove to keep my options open, and walked away with a smile if it got too incredibly cloying or catty, which it often did.

On the Other team, a Hispanic girl named Laura could do no right in the eyes of Candy and her cohorts. She was shunned as a veritable Untouchable, ignored with an intense concentrated effort while regarded as inferior to obviously superior cross eyed Italians with lisps. Because it is my nature to defend the underdog, I began to seek Laura out for conversation and on a regular basis, much to the chagrin of Candy.

While interacting with Laura, who seemed disproportionatly ecstatic to have someone interact with her in her ongoing social isolation, I was annoyed to notice that I was being intensely scrutinized by Candy's mafia. I was apparently now considered a traitor of sorts for refusing to join them in maintaining their hostile ostracism of Laura. Et tu, Brute! Back away from the Hispanic outcast!

I think not.

One of the lesser minions in this clique, a bootlicker named Marianne, approached me haughtily one morning to let my having formerly defaulted from the clique, with all of its dire consequences, be made known to me.

Like I gave a damn.

"Uh, listen," Marianne pronounced arrogantly, the shock of my having disrupted the heirarchy and befriended an outcast rocking her to the core of her bootlicking soul, "Candy and I have noticed that you are like, talking, to Laura."

"Mmmhmm," I replied cooly. "I am. She's nice."

"Well, " she said slowly, drawing in a melodramatic breath and placing her servants hands on her considerable hips, "we don't like her."

"Hmmm," I observed flatly, "that's interesting. I like her."

"We don't want her hanging out with us!" she said sharply, searching my face for any indication that I grasped the fullness of her implication. If you hang out with her, than you can't hang out with us!

Oh, cry me a river.

"Listen Marianne," I said evenly, leaning towards her while making direct eye contact, "I like Laura. She has done absolutely nothing to make me dislike her. I form my own opinions, whether you and Candy agree with me or not."

Glaring, she turned on her heel and sauntered away, in an apparent rush to meet with Candy in the breakroom, where the magnitude of my insolence would undoubtedly be discussed over Diet Pepsi and potato chips.

Oh, the nerve!

From my perspective, the opinions of bullies and followers such as these meant absolutely nothing to me, and I went about organizing my Timex watches in a state of cliqueless oblivion following the exchange outlined above.

Days later, I arrived to work and casually approached Laura to say good morning. To my surprise, she observed me cooly, regarding me with the same studied indifference with which she had been treated by Candy. Looking at her quizzically, I was amazed at the strategic manuveuer employed by a ridiculously vengeful Candy, who then called out to Laura to come join them in the break room, citing donuts and the unspoken gossip and ostracism factor they were to enjoy that day. Eyeing me with a momentary flash of desperation, Laura shrugged her shoulders and walked away with her newfound friends, turning her back on my kindness in her fear.

Fascinating.

Laura was in, I was out, and in spite of my loyalty and dissent in the face of injustice, I was subject to the greatest injustice of all when Laura herself turned on me.

This of course serves to illustrate that when we exercise the power of independent thought, we are often called upon to stand alone, as well as forgo the donuts and gossip as enjoyed by the group.

The Tao of Kim

This is the Tao of Kim.

Each moment we live provides us with the hopeful promise of a changed life, contingent upon the willingness to be open and change ones perspective if need be.

If you don't trust your intuition, engage your common sense, and learn from both your mistakes as well as those made by others, you will never grow or change.

After much thoughtful consideration, then, here are some things I've learned along the way. Some were hard lessons, while others occurred to me in moments of inspired revelation.

So here it is, everyone. My version of the true meaning of life, not meant to be in any specific order, but rather presented in a continuous flow. Just like life's experiences.

1. The greatest gift you can exchange with others is the gift of time.

Gold foil is pretty, and who doesn't like decorative bows. But there is only so much value in a thing, no matter what its purchase price. If you really care, if you really love someone, give them you. Spend time with them. Have long conversations, talk a walk together, or just sit together and enjoy each others company. I would much rather receive that than any store bought gift. Don't buy something, wrap it up, drop it off, and leave.

Just spend time with someone you care about, because time is the most valuable gift of all.

2. If someone doesn't want to be with you, let them go.

When someone cares about you, they will want to spend time with you. They will want to see your face, hear your voice, and share your thoughts whenever possible. If you're available, and yet they choose not to be with you, then let them go. Desperation is never an attractive quality, and as sad as the realization is that they have chosen to be elsewhere, you have to release that person. Love and respect are never about manipulation and control.

3. How do I love thee? Let me check the living room.

Women spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about relationships, and will wonder continuously about whether or not they are actually in one. Do you think he has feelings for me? Do you think he'll ever commit? Here's a very simple answer to that question: look around the room. Do you see him? Is he there? Has he been there within the last 24, 48, or 72 hours? Has he made a firm commitment to be there in the near future? Does he actually show up? If the answer to any of these questions is a resounding no, then you can safely assume that you are not in a relationship, he does not have feelings for you, and he most definitely will never commit.

Men have given up kingdoms, left countries, and fought wars over the women they love, and if he loves you believe me he will come find you. Anything less is just talk.

4. Talk is really cheap, and actions shout when words are long forgotten.

The most accurate measure of a persons intentions lies in their behavior towards you. How do they treat you? Are they kind, warm, reliable? Are they consistent, available, supportive? Are they there for you? If they aren't, no matter what they may have promised you verbally, their actions indicate otherwise. This unspoken language is what you need to listen to carefully as you watch and observe.

Talk is cheap, and a measure of a man is in his actions, not in his words.

5. If you have to make demands, it isn't love.

Love isn't desperate. It's not controlling. It's not jealous or selfish. It doesn't have to be. Love is ennobling and uplifting, and if it's real it makes you become a better person for having lived it. People show you how they feel with their actions, and if they aren't following through on promises made that they are obviously comfortable breaking, rest assured that your heart is next on the list. Crying and pleading is unattractive, and it will ruin your make up, so watch what he's doing as opposed to what was said, and react accordingly.

After all, when all is said and done, the only person you can control is yourself.

6. Relationships should never involve being made to feel as if you are a contestant on Elimidate.

Competing with other women is demeaning, and is not an option if you have even a modicum of pride or self respect. If a man allows or encourages this type of behavior by making sexual innuendos or flirtatious comments to other women in your presence, his attention is obviously elsewhere, and he will most likely not even notice it when you walk away. Let their feeding frenzy continue without you. You're too smart to tolerate that, and a man who doesn't need to feed his ego at your expense will turn up eventually.

7. If a man loves you enough to sleep with you, then he should love you enough to commit too.

Anything that's acquired too easily is not usually valued by people, and that includes sexual intimacy without commitment. Let's face it, men and women are inherently different, and thousands of years of biological, psychological and physiological responses between the sexes are not going to change simply because you decide that it's so. Men are hunters, so while a man may feel a certain sense of relief for having finally conquered the woman he wanted, the woman by contrast is now in heightened state of emotional vulnerability and need, the intensity of which often causes the man to pull away.

The man then often continues on to conquer the next woman, leaving the previously conquered woman devastated. Women grieve, and men replace. Don't put yourself in a situation where you may ultimately be replaced. Place a high value on yourself and don't allow anyone to experience you fully without a commitment. It sounds very 19th century, but it's true. If a man loves you, he will want to be with you regardless.

Anything less than that is not love, so what are you doing in his bedroom anyway? Getting used?

8. Your body is a temple, not a shack.

Sex is not love. Let me say it again. Sex is not love. You have not made love if you're not in love, and love always implies a genuine commitment. Sex without love is just that: sex. And you're a temple, to be loved and adored, not just someplace for someone to drop into on a Saturday night after two drinks and three lies. That would make you a shack, remember? And being a beautiful temple, that can never be right for you.

Sex is not love.

9. If you love someone, tell them.

Love comes in many colors. It can be romantic, platonic, or brotherly. It can be an expression of desire, genuine friendship, or mutual respect. Any of these reactions to another person can be experienced as feeling love for them, so why not tell them?

In 2004 my friend Michele was killed in an accident less than 24 hours after I had seen her for what was to have been the last time. During our impromptu 20 minute get together, I had the sudden urge to hug her and tell her that I loved her, but discounted the impression for fear of appearing odd or strange. I never saw her again after that day.

If you love someone, tell them now. You never know when it may be your last chance to do so.

10. Life and love are hard enough as it is. Play fair.

Relationships are in a continual state of flux and change. Emotions are never fixed, and with each passing day or heartbreaking experience, we slowly evolve into the person we are meant to be. It would be unrealistic to assume that because you loved someone at one time, that you would always love them in the same indefinite and predictable way. People change. They meet other people who change them. And sometimes the decision is made to end a relationship.

If you do decide to end a relationship, I think it's reasonable and fair to assume that you should be kind about it. Pay any outstanding debts you may owe them, give them a heartfelt and sincere apology, and offer to help them in any other way they may need before you leave. Be a decent person, even if you can no longer be the lover or husband or wife you once were. If you do any less, you have set a precedent for cruelty in your future relationships, and you will reap what you have sown. It's a law, and I have seen it in action.

I know someone who fell in love with a married man. There is no doubt in my mind that this mans marriage was unhappy, and that he had essentially outgrown the person he was with. It gives one pause for thought if she was actually the one person he was intended to be with, or rather someone he met along the way that had served her purpose for whatever stage he was in when they originally crossed paths.

Everyone who appears in our life has arrived right on time, and if they leave, you can trust that that timing was right as well.

But how can we reconcile his having met someone that he was genuinely excited about and with whom he was potentially more compatible with the fact that he already had a wife? What was his ultimate responsibility in this, and what was the fair and decent thing to do?

He ultimately chose to divorce his wife, but both he and the other woman were extremely cruel about it. They flaunted their relationship with total disregard for the woman's feelings, degrading and demoralizing her every step of the way. To add insult to unnecessary injury, the new girlfriend harassed his wife at every opportunity as well while her husband coldly looked the other way. Finally, the wife was driven out of her home after her husband divorced her, and watched in what must have been total devastation as this new woman quickly took over her once familiar world. She had taken her husband, her house, her daughter, and even her dog. Forced to live in a small apartment and work long hours as a single parent after the divorce, I'm sure the loss would have been all the more tolerable if her husband had at least tried to be nice to her in the midst of it or if he had defended her in any way whatsoever.

They didn't play fair, and someday it will come back on them when they least expect it. And that's when they'll discover just how hard life can be for them, too.

11. Everyone needs help of some kind. Go find these people.

Make it an objective to look for ways in which in you might help other people, and chances are you won't have to look very far. There is nothing more valuable or worthwhile than to extend yourself to someone who needs you without expectation of return. You cast your bread upon the waters, and the world has become a better place for having made the effort.

I was walking down a busy downtown street one day when I found a dollar in my pocket. I felt a sense of expectation, because it was unanticipated , and therefore had the sudden idea that I wanted to pass that sense of hopeful expectation on to someone else. "God," I said under my breath, "show me who might need this dollar!" I walked less than half a block when a woman approached me and asked sadly "do you have a dollar you can give me? I want to get a cup of coffee." Do I! I gave it to her happily, and felt completely in synch with the universe for having done so. It was only a dollar, but it was a lesson and a gift as well, and you can't put a price on that.

Recently, I was on the bus when an older man stumbled on with a handful of crumpled documents but no money in his hands. The bus driver told him emphatically that he would have to pay, or he would have to get off the bus as the man desperately searched in his empty pockets for the needed change. "I just came from court," he said sadly. "I don't think I have enough money, and I'm too tired to walk." It was snowing out, cold and gray, and I watched momentarily as he lunged back and forth with the movement of the bus as he tried to hold onto his paperwork and find the elusive coins he needed.

The bus driver angrily told him again that he would have to get off at the next stop if he didn't pay, and the mans shoulders slumped as he accidentally dropped his handful of pennies on the floor of the bus, desperate and ashamed.

"I have the money," I said suddenly, getting up to pay his fare. I smiled at the man and helped him pick up his pennies, and gave the bus driver a disapproving look as I fed two dollars into the machine. Was it really worth it? Would you make a man with no money and obvious problems walk in the snow over two dollars?

In the end, I gave him my seat too, and all with the hope that he would be revitalized by this unexpected kindness. He didn't know me, and he would never see me again, but there was that one time that some woman paid his fare, and he hadn't even asked her too! Maybe life isn't so bad, after all!

Pay it forward.

12. There really is sunlight behind every cloud. Go up in any airplane on a cloudy day and you can see for yourself.

Everything in life is interconnected. We live in a metaphysically correct universe, where everything is in order, even if we don't understand the exact mechanisms of it. Quantum physics states that in the time space continuum, we create our own reality as well as the realities of those whose lives we touch everyday. Why not strive to make that reality as positive as possible?

Everything happens for a reason, so don't panic. We are all moving towards our goals, even amongst the superficial chaos. Expect something wonderful to happen, and wait for it with hope and a smile.

13. Find something nice to say. There's something positive to be noted even when regarding negative people.

Have you ever encountered someone whose very presence exudes negativity? They are unhappy, they are hostile, they don't like you, they are almost making you feel ill for being near them.

You can always try and modify that dynamic by saying something nice. You can always find some small compliment to pay someone, even if you have to really search for it, and if nothing else it will make you feel better for having made the effort before you walk away.

I had an encounter with a woman in the recent past who was intensely jealous and competitive and disliked me as a result of her own insecurities. In spite of how much this hurt me, I decided that I was going to try and say something nice about her to counteract the hateful things she was saying about me. Regarding her sadly one day, my head tilted to the side in quiet thought, I finally said "You know I just have to tell you, you have a beautiful smile."

She regarded me with surprise for a brief moment, uttered a quick "thanks," and walked away. I can't say definitively if this small gesture changed the dynamic between us altogether, but it made it feel more comfortable for me. I wasn't going to involve myself in her hatred, I wasn't going to become overwhelmed.

I never see her anymore, but hopefully she will look back on this experience someday and realize that it wasn't me who was the enemy, it was herself and her own lack of confidence.

14. When you're viewed as somehow extraordinary, the ordinary will sometimes resent you without reason.

If you stand out from the crowd in any way whatsoever, expect to attract criticism from others. People will be jealous, and they will inevitably want to dim your light or through cold water on your passion. They'll want to silence your voice or dismiss your thoughts as irrelevant, when in truth they have no relevant voice or thoughts of their own, hence the resentment.

If you're big enough to attract notice, you have to realistically anticipate that you're big enough to attract criticism, too.

Eventually, though, being extraordinary, you just smile anyway and go about your life. Let the critics be ordinary and mean by all by themselves. It's sad really, because that's all they'll ever be.

15. Refuse to involve yourself with competitive people. You don't have anything to prove.

There are leaders and winners in life, and there are followers and losers. Inevitably, those who win are sometimes resented by those who lose, for obvious reasons.

When you have attained the goals you set out to achieve, while those who would oppose you stand outside the winners circle and hope that you'll eventually fail, just keep moving.

There's always another winners circle around the corner.

15. When someone tells you who they are, believe them.

If a person repeatedly tells you "I really am a bitch," or "I'm just a jerk," take them at their word. After all, they know themselves much better than you do, and why subject yourself to needless pain or aggravation engaging with someone who is veritably stating that they are not nice? View these statements as the person having laid the foundation for future injustices that they will expect you to tolerate as a result of the lack of confidence you demonstrated by being involved with them to begin with. Save yourself the hurtful recriminations and relinquish the victims torch to someone else who really wants to carry it. If a person doesn't appreciate or respect you and deliberatly hurts you instead, let them do it on someone else's time.

After all, you're far too busy and much too nice to waste even one more minute on people who don't really care about you.

16. If someone hurts you, deny them you.

It's an important distinction to make, I think, that forgiving others that hurt you does not mean that you need to necessarily engage yourself. If someone doesn't value your love, time, or friendship, the healthiest decision you can possibly make is to divert your attentions elsewhere, and move on. This implies true courage and self respect, and refusing to allow others access to you that blatantly do not appreciate that access is paramount to recovery.

Protect yourself. Just back off.

17. Give yourself the gift of goodbye.

I have the gift of goodbye. It's not a gift I like to use, but sometimes it's as necessary as it is painful.

When someone repeatedly hurts you, choices are being made in each instance. They are choosing to disregard your feelings, and you are choosing to overlook their behavior in exchange for having that persons presence in your life. Have you told them what's upsetting you? Did you explain how it makes you feel? Have you tried to negotiate a compromise, set the record straight, or outlined what you can and cannot tolerate in relationship to them?

And having done all of that, do they keep hurting you anyway? If the answer is yes, you need to tell them one last thing.

Goodbye.

18. Victims really do exist, just try not to be a willing participant.

It's easy and comforting to try and reassure yourself that there is no such thing as a victim, as you opt to view the entire concept of victimization as stemming from the perspective of personal choice. And that may be true in some instances, but not in all.

This was a startling revelation to me, and I found it upsetting to consider.

I recall reading a story wherein a young girl had been walking home from church one evening when two men in a van pulled up and suddenly abducted her. There was a flash of partially remembered color as witnesses recalled how the door had slammed, the van speeding away while the girl screamed. All that they ever found was her gym shoe, left behind on the sidewalk when she was forcibly pulled off of her feet, and one might argue, off her path in life itself.

People do get murdered. They get robbed. They trust someone who betrays them or they sacrifice themselves for something that ultimately didn't matter.

Sometimes bad things do happen to good people, and all we can do is trust that even in these instances, it will all turn out for the best. There was a reason for it, even if it doesn't make any sense right now.

Still, we can consciously decide not to become a victim in those instances when we are aware of it, and avoid making choices that would identify us as victims of our own making.

There are such things as victims, but don't let it happen to you if you can possibly help it.

19. No one ever gets away with anything. Not really.

There really is no such thing as a perfect crime.

I always find it fascinating that with the advent of newer, more sophisticated forensic techniques, crimes that would have been previously unsolved are instead held up in the light of day for all to see. The criminal is aprehended, and the victim receives justice.

Even in those instances when forensic science fails, though, there is still spiritual law and moral justice. If you hurt other people, someone is going to hurt you. If you deal treacherously with others, you will eventually be betrayed yourself.

With these thoughts in mind, taking matters into your own hands or looking to seek revenge is really very unnecessary. Sometimes, the greatest punishment that a person can suffer is having to be themselves. They will have to live with the ramifications of their actions and choices, they will have to coexist within their own body, in their own mind, as a spiritually or morally corrupt person.

Let's say for example that they stole from you. What did they really gain, and what did you truly lose? They're still who they are, even though they may now have something that had once belonged to you, while you have one less thing but you're intact as a person in spite of the loss. So who's the real victim?

They won't get away with it indefinitely. No one ever does.

20. Forgiveness isn't an option, but it is a choice.

We have to forgive people who have hurt us, or we'll end up hurting ourselves. No matter what the injustice, it is in our best interest to find it in our hearts to forgive others regardless of how difficult it may be.

One of the most touching instances of forgiveness that I have ever read was described in Corrie ten Boom's book entitled The Hiding Place. Having been captured by the Nazi's during Hitler's reign of terror after providing a hiding place for some Jewish friends in her home, Corrie and her family were sent away to one of the death camps. She and her family suffered unspeakable abuse there, and many of her family members died.

She and her sister Betsy were beaten and whipped, spat on and worked until the point of exhaustion and actual death. When Corrie was released years later as a result of a "paperwork error," she was determined to bring her insights and experiences to the entire world, as she had been set free and transformed by love and forgiveness.

One evening years after her release, when addressing a large auditorium as a public speaker, she was paralyzed with dread when she saw one of the most vicious German gaurds from the camp she was interred in walking directly towards her. Ironically, she had been talking about the need for forgiveness that night, and here was the opportunity to apply theoretical concepts where there was a genuine need. She was confident that he hadn't recognized her, as she was but one of thousands, but still she was unable to respond as the old fears overcame her.

"Fraulein," he said as he extended his hand, "I enjoyed your lesson regarding forgiveness so much! I myself was one of the gaurds at Ravensbruck, and tell me, do you believe that God can ever forgive me for the things that I did there?"

She couldn't move, she was unable to speak. She did not take his hand. "God," she prayed frantically, "you are going to have to give me the strength to do this, because I can't do it by myself."

Out of sheer willpower then, she made the choice to accept his hand in forgiveness, and as direct result felt a physiological sensation of warmth surge through her as she actually experienced genuine forgiveness in that moment.

That's sometimes all it takes for a reconciliation to occur, is having an open heart and a spirit of willingness. It is such a feeling of relief to forgive others or to receive forgiveness yourself; why would anyone deprive themselves of it?

After all, life is meant to be a learning curve, we all make mistakes, and we're all in this together.

Politically Correct Riley's Daughter

A close friend called me earlier today seeking advice while in the midst of a personal melodrama that evolved, in part, from the fact that her husband is not politically correct. He is, in fact, honest and opinionated, and evidentially made no immediate apologies for the attitude that ultimately cost him his job.

His employer was a jagoff, and he walked. As a result of this impulsive act, now he can repent at leisure from a perspective of self satisfied pride while the bills roll in and they wonder how they'll pay them.

In this scenario, there is something to be said for at least trying to be politically correct.

My father was always a lifelong advocate of telling it like it is in spite of the fallout, political or otherwise. I recall hearing him rant and rave on various work related issues for years as I was growing up, a Teamster and union stewart and "stand up guy" ready to fight for his men on a moments notice. He had no fear whatsoever, no qualms about telling the mob bosses or the head of the Teamsters union that they weren't going to fuck with him, that they were all "toothless lions," and that he wasn't going to back down, no matter what!

The fact that my father was a sergeant in the Army and a Navy aviator during the Korean War did nothing to soften his rough edges either, and let's just say that he was never politically correct. He made enemies as well as friends in high places, and was in fact written about (under his nickname Sonny) by childhood friend and Chicago columnist Mike Royko in his book entitled Boss, detailing the political structure of the Daley administration with which my dad was so well acquainted. In retrospect, it's amazing that he didn't end up on permanent vacation with Jimmy Hoffa for all of his extremely vocal contempt for those in corrupt power, and with whom he had legitimate points of contention over the years.

Toothless lions, indeed.

For all of his bravado, though, and for all of the hard won victories he amassed on behalf of those who came to him for assistance, my dad paid the ultimate price. You don't spend years and years getting into brawls and telling off people who are essentially mob connected and live to tell the tale. Well, maybe you live to tell the tale, but you do not necessarily pass go, nor do you collect 200.00 dollars.

What you do collect, instead, is far less than the money you are entitled to after having been a hard worker as well as a hero on behalf of the men he supported for so long. The union leaders he had fought so vehemently ultimately screwed my dad out of the majority of his pension, and in his anger, like Serpico he took the bullet and retreated, too proud to ask for favors from those he had represented at the union hall. And all of those who benefited from his arguments, who let him take the bullets, now phone my dad from their condo's in Florida with money in the bank and plenty to burn.

My father will denounce some of these people, saying angrily that they were ass kissers, cowards, or "suck holes," and that he doesn't have what they have now because he refused to "play the game." All of this is noble and good, and I respect what you're saying, dad, but they're the one with the pensions and the houses on the beach.

So maybe there is something to be said for being politically correct?

As my fathers daughter, I too have a reputation for refusing to bend over or back down in the face of adversity. I will champion the cause for those in need of defense at a moments notice, and would catch the bullets in my teeth for them if I thought I could do it in style. I was referred to as a "warrior" by nervous coworkers during a previous employment incarnation, as I set about trying to single handedly take on management in the interest of making our working environment better for all concerned. Unfortunately nothing changed in spite of my efforts, and needless to say I don't work there anymore. I have a pronounced tendency to talk first and ask questions later, and God knows I have walked out on jobs and people and situations in which I could no longer reconcile their petty misbehavior with my proud and idealized notions of the way things should be instead. I want everyone to be upright and brave and honest, and when they aren't I am out of there, and usually with a cutting remark just before the door slams shut behind me.

This is not good, and is as far from PC as one can be without going off to the Big House for sentencing.

With all of this introspection being carried on, however, I have recently made a conscious decision to try and become more politically correct. To learn to be quiet when I should and speak up only if there's a definite need. I am trying not to save the world seven days a week, and am making a concentrated effort to be on a self imposed hero's hiatus for at least three out of five days at a time. I am learning to nod my head and smile politely when I really want to roll my eyes or give someone the finger, and to say Friendly Things to people whom are so transparent in their complete lack of character that I would normally not give them a second of my time, much less greet them in public.

But that's not how you act when you're politically correct.

When you're politically correct, you're Nice. You buy the birthday card for the boss you don't like because they have control over your livelihood. You shake the hand of your enemy, because to do less makes you look bad and therefore gives them power by merit of your lack of response. You smile sweetly when your enemies fall, and wish them nothing but the best instead of laughing, which is oh so vulgar and rude. And if you're politically correct, you are never, ever rude. Just ask Miss Manners. She'll tell you.

I know that this stance is difficult, at best. It's not my style, and I desperately hope that I will be independent enough in the future, financially and otherwise, so that can I can freely tell people at will to go to hell if that's what the circumstances call for. That is true freedom, and is the escape awarded for those who triumph.

And to win, unfortunately, sometimes you just have to be politically correct.

Shiny Treasures

I break for homeless people. I feel a kinship with them, and want always to reaffirm any small hope they may harbor in their broken hearts that people do care.

This has been an ongoing theme for me my entire life. I am perpetually drawn to the loners, the disenfranchised, the person slumped over on a park bench. What's wrong? Can I help you?

As a child, I was possessed of the utmost sensitivity and emotionalism, even attributing feelings to inanimate objects. If you didn't play with that toy, it would feel left out, and of course you can't neglect to spend time with the teddy bear. How would he feel? Everyone, and everything, had to be tenderly included and considered in my world.

Although I didn't encourage my son to project deep emotionalism on inanimate objects, I did try to teach him compassion. Years ago, while on an outing in downtown Chicago, we came across a man panhandling in a wheelchair. I told Daniel that he should give the man the change he had in his children's pockets, as an exercise of awareness and generosity. At first he pouted, but when I assured him that God would see to it that his money would ultimately be returned to him for his having been nice, he agreed to give the man his coveted pocket change.

On the Metra train on the way home, Daniel was enthralled to find three shiny quarters on the floor beneath his seat, which was a full twenty five cents more than he had just given. A lesson was definitely learned that day, thank God.

I had a second opportunity to demonstrate the concepts of equality and giving to my son while we were in New York one Christmas. Walking up and down Broadway one rainy evening, the streets lit with a dishonest neon brightness that failed to illuminate all but the most shallow of eyes, we came across a homeless man sitting on the ground in a doorway. He looked young, younger than most who live their lives on the street, and he lowered his gaze as we approached him.

Taking Daniel by his hand, we walked up to the man, and I knelt down on one knee, encouraging my son with a glance to do the same. "You don't have to look down when we walk past," I said softly. "We're no different than you are." I handed him some money, wished him well, and walked away. Daniel was very quiet. I wanted him to know it's wrong to look down on others, and I think he understood.

This preoccupation with the homeless culminated in the early 1990's with my having implemented a ministry of sorts to help the homeless in Union Park. With a friend of mine from church, we photocopied fliers, shopped for canned goods, bought a turkey, rallied others to donate clothing, and set up folding tables in the field house for Thanksgiving dinner. I brought in a microphone and speaker system, and basically sang, talked, and counseled my way through a three hour service, whilst simultaneously trying to ensure the bunson burners were still operating and all the food was cooked and served. It was a lot of work. I went back again at Christmas time, and then again for several more holiday seasons thereafter. From our first group of 7 men and women, we were later serving closer to 40.

Being part of a large group such of this was cathartic for me. I always wanted to be a part of a large family, and have often wished I could exist in an Olive Garden commercial. I have spent quite a bit of time driving through neighborhoods I could never afford to live in, looking at beautiful houses and wondering what it would be like to be a part of a home, a family, such as that.

Basically, I have more in common with the homeless, and I know it.

I was in downtown Chicago recently, and saw a homeless man sleeping on a park bench. I knew he was homeless because of his sun darkened skin, his inappropriately warm coat, and his defeated posture. I paused and thought of how ironic this was, a bereft person set against the framework of the lake, the boats of the wealthy during the summer season sure to pass him by.

I stopped on the sidewalk and opened my backpack, filled with gum wrappers, scribbled ideas, and half finished homework, to search for money. Any money. In the bottom, I found them. Quarters.

There were others on the benches around this man, happy well dressed couples chatting aimlessly while someone lay broken and ignored in the midst of them. I thought momentarily of how strange I would look walking past them to greet the man on the bench.

I watched him for a long moment, in the shadow of the Drake Hotel as limo's sped by, and thought about how I sometimes feel that I am racing towards nothing, too.

I walked gingerly across the well manicured lawn, the precious quarters in my loosely clenched fist. I had $2.25, a ransom for a paupers king, and all the worldly goods I had to offer. It wasn't much, I reasoned, but maybe it would give him a cup of coffee and some hope.

He was sleeping. Perhaps whiling away his loneliness, killing time. Maybe he was exhausted by grief as well, weary of the effort it took to continually look away from cold stares of indifference.

I tapped gently on his shoulder. "Sir?"

His eyes opened suddenly, fearfully. They were a deep azure blue, like the sky on a warm sunny day. I was surprised at their beauty.

Nervous, he tried to rise up from his prone position, saying "yes, mam?"

"I just wanted to give you these quarters." I smiled at him, placing them in his anxiously upturned palm. "It's not much, but I thought it might help you."

His mouth dropped open in childlike excitement. "Oh thank you!" he said wondrously, regarding the splendor in his hand.

I patted his shoulder and told him to take care of himself before I walked away. When I turned to look at him over my shoulder, I could see him holding his hand full of quarters up in the sunlight, turning them over like so many shiny treasures.

On the Wagon

As a self appointed drama queen, problem solver, and person most likely to succeed in instigating trouble, I singlehandedly caused my friends and I to end up in the back of a paddy wagon one night in the company of two extravegently dressed but ill-tempered prostitutes.

Hey, I promised we would have fun didn't I?

We had gone to a club in downtown Chicago, where trendy folks were partaking of trendy drinks, while others sniffed stuff through straws. With music blaring overhead, and multicolored lights casting a flattering if unrealistic glow, we were eager to move into the mix, become one with the ecstatic mood around us, and have a good time.

Wearing our best high heels with high hair to match, we drove to the club in my friend Theresa's car, failing to take into consideration that the greater metropolitan Chicago area had also decided to seek out parking spaces in and around the club that night.

Which reminds me of a joke:

Ah, Chicago. The city of a thousand dreams. And one parking space.

After 42 trips around the various crowded blocks, surpassing valet parking that cost roughly one years salary to patronize, I found the perfect solution. As usual.

We could simply park in that vacant deserted space underneath the L tracks and walk!

Eyeing me suspiciously, as one might a bandit who had plans to commandeer her vehicle and seize her common sense, Theresa pointed out that there was an oversized sign posted next to the proposed space that we should probably be taking into consideration.

Looking at the sign quizzically, my head tilted to the side in deep philosophical thought, I read:

TOW AWAY ZONE
NO
PARKING ANYTIME

Now, there are those in life for whom the glass appears to be half empty, and others for whom the glass is optimistically half full. And there are others who obviously need stronger and better glasses altogether.

Smiling, a delusional Idea Bulb popping up over my head in cartoon fashion, I suddenly realized that we were interpreting the sign wrong, that's all!

What it really said was:

TOW AWAY ZONE?!
NO!
PARKING ANYTIME!

In that context, it was really quite friendly, and required no more than a little smiley face icon to complete the presentation.

Theresa, Pam and Kathy remained cautiously suspicious, and rightly so, as I was obviously out of my mind to think that disgruntled tow truck drivers wouldn't haul her car away in chains if given half the chance, and all while they laughed sardonically, smoking Marlboro's and scratching themselves in yonder places.

"Oh, it will be fine," I said with the all confident finness of Bill Clinton fondling a cigar in the Oral Office. "No one will even notice the car! We won't get towed!"

Famous last words.

At the club, our overall fun meter at a much lower rate than originally anticipated while Theresa fretted about her vehicle, I wondered aloud what the big issue was with the Batmobile. The car was now so completely and safely hidden under the dark and spooky recesses of the train tracks that even Adam West and Burt Ward couldn't find it.

Well, that was my point of view anyway, as I laughed and danced the like the Lord of the Morons.

When the revelry ended, we walked back to our personal valet location, myself full of joi de vive and bullshit, Theresa accelerating dangerously on my left as we approached a now strangely vacant parking space.

Hey, what happened?

It was the mystery of mysteries, a veritable crop circle like event, a supernatural mindbender.

"Oh great!" Theresa exclaimed as she stomped her four inch heel into the wheel impression left behind when her car was dragged off into the night without her consent. "We've been towed!"

Looking at the side by side tire tracks, the lumbering bootprints, and the smoldering Marlboro cigarette butts still scattered haphazardly at the scene, I mustered a surprised "do you think?"

"Do you?!" Theresa responded heatedly, swinging her fashionable purse, now devoid of money, in my general direction. She appeared vexed. I took a step back and whistled.

Our fun meter now registering a .2, all plans for future revelry came to a screeching halt at that moment. Turning my palms upwards in a humble gesture, I shrugged my shoulders and apologized, which I'm sure was quite helpful under the circumstances.

Having created this sorry sichyashun, I knew it was my responsibility to solve the problem. It was 3:00am, we were out of collective funds, Theresa's car was impounded in a lot so distant it might as well have been in Mongolia, and we were in a bad neighborhood full of neer-do-wells, scoundrels, and those looking for a late night Wendy's.

"Let's just start walking," I said with false bravado. "Everything will be alright."

Mmmhmm.

Wandering down the streets, we contemplated chasing a CTA bus and pleading for a complimentary ride, but there were no buses. We considered hailing a taxi, but realized we wouldn't have the means to pay the kings ransom once we arrived at our destination, so we decided against that too.

And then, like a wanderers mirage, I saw it headed right for us. A paddy wagon being driven by Chicago's finest!

"There's our ride," I said happily as I ran towards the street waving my arms frantically. "They're the police! They have to help us!"

Jumping directly into the path of the oncoming vehicle while my friends stood on the curb appalled and laughing, I stopped the police in their tracks with all of the grace and style of a carjacker from the west side.

The cop looked decidedly unhappy when he realized he must not run me over to avoid prosecution, but nevertheless stopped to listen. Hearing our plight, he finally said "I'll give you a ride this time, but let's not make a habit of this."

Wondering why anyone would want to make a habit out of riding in a paddy wagon, I was forced to refocus my attention when the back door of the paddy wagon was swung wide open to accommodate us. There, handcuffed on the cold metal benches, were two unemployed and perplexed prostitutes. One resembled Liza Minelli, and the other was a dead ringer for Nathan Lane in The Birdcage.

"Alright," Officer Friendly said in decidedly unfriendly tone. "Get in."

Turning away momentarily, I threw my head back and laughed with sheer delight at these humorous turn of events.

"Hookers!" I whispered excitedly to Kathy. "Is that not the funniest thing you can imagine? We get to ride in a paddy wagon with hookers!"

"I am not getting in," she responded emphatically. "Uh uh! No way!"

"Kathy" I said softly but with insistence, ever the socially aware coordinator of carpools for hookers and freelance laypeople alike "don't offend them! Just get in!"

Now, paddy wagons, built for those of criminal intent and stranded drivers, utilizes as its first means of punishment the ability to injure and humiliate you by making you scale the north face of the back door without use of appropriate mountain climbing gear. Clambering over sharp metal with unreliable footwear, by the time you get inside you are actually grateful to be there.

Cop psychology 101. Make 'em climb.

My friends and I, finally in and sitting on the cold metal benches ourselves (although sans handcuffs and lacking current warrants for our arrest) smiled curiously at the self employed sex professionals in our midst. I supressed the urge to talk excitedly about our means of transportation, as there were obviously certain passengers who had no choice but to be there. But Kathy is just negative like that sometimes.

Surveying my options, I decided to try and make friends with the gals.

"Um, hi," I said tenatively. "I'm Kim, and this is Theresa, Kathy, and Pam. So. Whaddaya in for? Are you going to the Big House? We're going to my house. Do you like chocolate? "

Yeah. Right. Shaddup.

When it was obvious that they were not interested in making conversation, sharing recipes, or otherwise bonding, I turned my attention back to my non call girl clique.

Bouncing along the streets of Chicago, with the sun trying to appear over the horizon as Liza Minelli tried to steal my purse, I smiled to myself as I reviewed the events of the evening. Our vehicle may have been relocated to destinations unknown, we may have ended up in a paddy wagon, and Nathan Lane may have requested referrals by which he might procure illicit drugs, but thats okay, because it was interesting.

A good time had been had by all, although in the future we may spring for the valet parking or at least solicit a ride home in the back of an ice cream truck instead.

Running with Onions

And now, here is yet another encore presentation. It is almost Easter once again, and I am very busy eating candy right now. Not onions. Candy.

Easter Sunday should have never ended up like this.

I fancy myself to be a sporty chick. Not a graceful, lithe, athletically coordinated chick, mind you, but a sporty one. I like, and will watch and play, Mind The Puck You Idiot Hockey, Fractures Heal Fairly Quickly Football, Downhill Skiing on Smack, Rollerblading Death Wish Expedition, and Skakeboard Poser Wanna Be.

The latter is what I was playing on Easter Sunday, 2001. It was the first beautiful spring day, deceptive in its inviting warm sunniness. My son, who was 11 at the time and in training as the emergent Tony Hawk of his peer group, was outside in my sisters driveway practicing while my two younger nephews ran in manic circles around him while he executed his moves.

The adults were all inside my sisters kitchen, assuming Adult Responsibilities such as setting the table and cooking, and as I momentarily watched the kids outside having fun through the window, I decided to quickly extricate myself from this indoor sichyashun.

"Um, " I said quietly to no one in particular, in an effort to leave before someone put me to work, "I'm going to go outside and play with the kids."

Ah, freedom. Fresh air, laughter, impending doom.

"Hey Daniel!" I said cheerfully, "let me try your skateboard!" I believe this is what they call a fated moment.


My son shrugged and handed me the skateboard. I placed it clumsily on the downhill incline of the driveway, saying with a faith and confidence that was ridiculous in retrospect, "watch this!"

Famous last words.

Stepping onto the board with my right foot, I pushed off with my left. Proper technique, huh? Except, in 0.1 seconds, I somehow lost my balance and flew forwards, as the skateboard careened off to right from beneath my foot, causing it to become a trajectile.

This sudden loss of skateboard balance catapulted this right foot, now free of planned skateboarding activity, into a crack in my sisters driveway, creating a massive tripping motion reminiscent of Timothy Leary on LSD. Meanwhile, back on the other side of my body, which was trying desperately to overcompensate for this shocking turn of events, my left leg cooperated with my freefall by curving unnaturally to the side, which served not to help me to maintain an upright position, but rather to simply break said left leg in four places.

I hit the ground with a resounding "snap, crackle, and pop" the likes of which have not been heard outside of a Kellogg's Rice Crispy cereal box, and thought uneasily, uh oh, I really did it this time. Yep. It's broken all right. No doubt about it.

My son shook his head in disdain as he looked down at me, unaware of the damages, most likely thinking "amateur!"

"Daniel," I said as calmly as possible from my prone position, the wheels of his skateboard still spinning near my head, "go into the house and tell Aunt Kathy to call 911. I just broke my leg. And my toe. And maybe some other stuff."

"You did not!" he said incredulously, searching my face for the truth.

"Daniel," I said with a wince, trying not to give forth with a petulant whine, "I did too. Now run!"

He ran, and quickly alerted the authorities.

The first one on the scene, ever the gentle comforter, was my father. Our conversation went something like this:

Dad (looking down at me and waving his arms in a frantic gesture to encourage me to pull myself up by my bootstraps): What the hell do you think you're doin'?! It's Easter for Chrissakes!

Me (sounding like Special Ed): I fell down.

Dad (perplexed by this revelation): Who the hell told you to get on a damn skateboard anyway?!

Me (Special Ed speaketh again): I like sports.

When the fire department, an ambulance, and two squad cars arrived, along with 245 bystanders looking for a little Easter Sunday entertainment, I was surrounded. Looking up into the faces of the curious, I felt like I was encircled by the cast of Eight is Enough. And 245 is plenty.

When the paramedics engaged in a huddle to discuss their strategy on how they might attempt to hoist me up onto the narrow gurnee, I felt compelled to make a speech. "Wait!" I said with a dramatic flair, "before you even try and lift me, there's something I need to tell you! I'm a little overweight, and I hope you guys had your Wheaties this morning!" The EMT's laughing, I was plunked painfully onto the rolling bed.

In the ambulance, I could not contain my strangely inappropriate glee at the realization that I would not be expected to report to work the following morning. In addition to the multiple fractures, I found myself almost hoping that I had also squashed my spleen, deflated my duodenum, or otherwise caused myself to malfunction so I could be off work even longer. I was offered a cocktail of drugs, which I gamely refused because even through the discomfort, I was happy. This wasn't trauma, this was terrific!

I hated my job. I was an Operations Supervisor for a travel management company, a position I was thrust into wherein I supervised 10 psychotic employees, a 6 million dollar account, and several other smaller accounts that were valued at 1 to 2 million apiece. Amongst the daily stress inherent in these responsibilities, I also had to contend with my boss and her secretary.

My director, a cross between Cruella DeVille and Lucretia Borgia, had hired a petite, troll like secretary named Jan to slink about the office with what could have been the equivalent of a Satellite Spy Dish Tracking System embedded in her head, a device which was used to report back to her eminence every 3.5 seconds. I was thrilled to be away from these people for a protracted period of time.

At the hospital, after my injuries were X-rayed and confirmed, I was sent home with a brace, crutches, and an admonishment that I begin physical therapy for the torn ligaments in my knee as well. Boy, I thought, I really know how to take a swandive.

I dutifully wore my black velcroed Frankenstienian monstrosity of a brace for countless weeks. But when it began to get warmer out, I often decided to become a little cavalier (see: stoopid) about my commitment, and began to leave it at home, opting to use just one crutch and be done with it.

My dad, the Amazing Karnac, had this to say in regards to my fashion conscious medical faux pas:

Dad: Somebody's gonna see you from that job, and it's gonna be all over! You better wear that brace!

Me (rolling my eyes like an errant teen and sighing): Oh dad....

It happened at Caputo's, a fruit and vegetable emporium of the Italian kind. I went with my neighbor, Maria, and although I wasn't quite sure what I would do with anything procured from this establishment in its most basic raw form, I went along for the ride, anyway.

Sans brace.

I innocently toyed with the vegetables. They were pretty, colorful, and might make nice temporary kitchen decorations. I poked things and sniffed them, striving valiantly to look knowledgeable in the midst of all the serious vegetable shoppers. "Hey!" I said to Maria. "Look! Onions!" Maria nodded and gave me a cursory smile, probably thinking, yes, very good, those are onions....

And then I spotted her. My bosses secretary, near the tomatoes, her head cocked to one side like a frickin RCA Victor Spy Dog. She was a human radar detector, and had obviously picked up my voice.

We made eye contact. It was brief and unnerving, the hunter and the hunted, the communist and the KGB.

Without even a momentary pause for thought, grasping my newfound onion friends to my chest now heaving in panic, I did the most obvious self respecting thing that anyone with a well publicized broken leg who was off on company paid disability would do: I took off running.

My legs, suddenly healed by an adrenaline rush to rival that of a mountaineer being pursued by a grizzly, carried the onions and I not only through the parking lot, but down two alleys and three city blocks before I finally came to a stop behind some unsuspecting person's garage and hid. Not only did I appear to be healed in a miracle reminiscent of any received at Lourdes, but I was now also apparently an onion thief.

Maria caught up with me moments later, leaping out of her Cadillac and shrieking "oh my God, what happened?! Why did you do it?! I would have helped you pay for the onions!"

Amused at the idea that I had become an unintentional produce bandit, I instead explained to Maria that my bosses spy was there, and that she saw me, and now I was going to have to go back to work!

Ew.

When I returned home that day, with an achey knee and three hot onions, I reviewed the situation and had to laugh. Although did I ultimately end up getting "laid off" much later, it was with full benefits and a lovely severance package that made for a nice extended vacation. I never had to walk through the doors of that building again, brace or not, and I was ecstatic.

And to think that it was because I had dared to run with onions!