“Hey, dude! You’re in front of my house with music blaring. It’s 7 am. What are you thinking?”
The loud, obnoxious noise that disrupted my serene morning was emanating from a car parked in front of my house. Without a second thought I stormed out my front door and flapped my arms about like a demented octopus.
Now don’t get me wrong. I realize that I live in a city full of people, and people are very noisy beings. I don’t expect quiet all the time. But if one of those people pulls over to rearrange his trunk at 7 in the morning, the least he could do is turn down his music. Or go somewhere else.
“Sorry, sorry,” the man cringed as he rushed to the front of his car to switch off the music. He looked sincerely contrite, which appeased the part of me that made me flap my arms around. I waved my hand like a human and returned inside to make a cup of coffee.
“Did you just call that guy dude?” For some reason my husband had a big smile on his face.
“That’s right. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, except I thought you’d say, ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind turning down your music.’ Not ‘Hey, dude.'”
That does it. My experiment of the last few years, the one where I tested how society treats the super-nice, is over. Done. Caput.
I’ve bent over backwards so many times, going above and beyond normal niceness in an effort to make the world a better place. My reward? Usually a resounding punch in the stomach.
This didn’t happen just once, it happened multiple times. There are people in this world, quite a few of them in fact, who interpret nice as compliant and meek.
So I’ll use my best manners in most instances.
But for those out there who are rude, inconsiderate, and think they can bulldoze right over everyone to get their way, the kid gloves are coming off.
I’ve got a different kind of nice for them.
A nice, new pair of boxing gloves.
It’s time the bulldozers learned that nice does not equal weak.