There is a certain imprimatur I can do without. Let it be noted that I do not want anyone to say that I was a nice guy during my funeral service. Nice is the province of mediocrity. If that is the best thing that can be said of a fellow then congeniality be damned.
What effort does it take to be agreeable? Oh, I imagine a certain degree of dexterity comes in handy to avoid tripping over your shoelaces while getting out of the way of the imperious. I will grant you that it requires a certain monastic sensibility to keep your mouth shut while acting supportive of those around us. And credit must be given to those who, in their desire to ameliorate the harm people inflict upon themselves by making chronically deleterious decisions, always find themselves choked by the collar of their comrade's misfortune.
I never the less often find myself wondering about the nature of niceness. Every time I have wandered unexpectedly into its embrace I come away missing some essential essence of myself. How did I let that happen I ask myself? How did I end up being the one with his finger in the dam? Oh yes, it is because I was being nice. The fine line between cordiality and complacency has always eluded me. I am jealous of successful, supposedly nice people but I admire principled people. They are rarely considered nice, because they don't easily compromise, but they are always respected. My departed father-in-law comes to mind. I did not often find myself agreeing with him but if you knew the rules and followed them while in his presence, he would lay down his sword for you.
What does this have to do with the Cabin in the Catskills? Nothing, but I rarely leave a challenge unanswered.
You've been spending way too much time with a thesaurus dear.
ReplyDeleteFor those that have no idea what "the challenge" was: My sister, Dee, emailed me that she thought that Rich was a lot like our Dad, and, she wondered what our Dad would have said if he ever wrote a blog. I responded to her that our Dad would most certainly have titled his blog (although he never owned a laptop), "No More Mr. Nice Guy." My Dad rarely wrote a letter, but when he did, if it was written on his "No More Mr. Nice Guy" pad of paper (Marta-did you give that to him?), you wouldn't want to be the recipient of that letter. My other sister, Marta, now drinks out of my Dad's "No More Mr. Nice Guy" mug.
In spite of the Thesaurus Rich, you do sound like Ralph. He never wanted to be thought of as a nice guy...
ReplyDeleteDee