This morning, I stopped at the grocery store on my way home from the Y. (Note: NO, this is not just a subtle way to broadcast the fact that I GOT UP AND WORKED OUT AT 5:30 THIS MORNING. I'm beyond that.) I picked up the handful of items I wanted and went to the Express Line.
Uh oh. There were at least 10 people standing in the line that snaked around the shelves, and their sad, hopeless faces telegraphed that they were on a voyage of the damned. The only other open lane had two waiting carts stacked so high it appeared to be a preparation for an imminent nuclear winter.
I waited about three minutes, and the Express (!) cashier was still ringing up the same person. Based on my crack math skills, at that rate it would take 30 minutes.
I sighed. Not today, Satan. I stepped out of line, dropped my perishables into the nearest cold case and left the other stuff on a shelf and headed out the door. Something clearly was systemically wrong here.
On the way to my car, I saw a woman rushing in from the parking lot wearing a shirt and badge that identified her as an employee of the grocery store. And it occurred to me that she could be a missing cashier.
And then it occurred to me that maybe it wasn't something systemically wrong. Maybe it was something personally wrong, for a very specific, vulnerable, struggling fellow human. A sick child, or a flat tire, or a late bus.
So I gathered my righteous indignation back in to save it for another day, when it's more appropriate. And wondered if that day would ever really come.
I kinda hope not.
Stardust and Clay: You Don't Have to Be Good at Everything
One of my coaching clients was struggling with some relationship issues and feeling down about it.
This is someone who is *really* good at many things, and has an enviable track record of achievement. I’m frankly in awe of her ability to Get. Sh*t. Done.
My hunch is that she implicitly considered relationship navigation as an easier and “softer” skill. Like, “I’m so good at all this other hard stuff. How can something like this be so consistently hard? Especially in this squishy area. It must mean something really bad about me.”
Cultural conditioning around gender also probably had something to do with it. She has many outward markers that our success-oriented zeitgeist validates. As a female, there was perhaps an internalized stereotype and expectation that she would also by nature be better at these softer skills, which tend to get shorter shrift in the marketplace.
I don’t think that’s how it works. You can be really good at some things and struggle mightily with others, and the latter in no way takes the shine off the areas in which you excel. This goes for coaches, too. I’ve shared enough bottles of wine with enough of my peers to know that we all have Our Stuff. Fortunately--perhaps mercifully is the right word--we don’t have to be perfect to offer grace to one other.
You have full permission to be an accomplished, magical, and magnificent being who is also awkward, imperfect, and quirky--equal parts stardust and clay. Your hurts and your heroism can exist side-by-side. And, speaking to my client’s concern, let’s face it: far from easy, relationships can bring up our deepest, most vulnerable issues. They can require some serious ninja skills.
As Ram Dass said, “We’re all just walking each other home.” So, let yourself be on the path, in all of its perfect imperfection. You’ve got good company for the journey.
Asking for What You Want, Part 2: On Being Unreasonably “Reasonable”
In which our hero spills a little more tea about how asking for what he wants can be difficult, and what happened when things got dirty. (Like, muddy-dirty. Not dirty-dirty.)
I’m currently spending a boatload of money for much-needed home repairs, including foundation and drainage work. Part of that has involved making holes (covered by screens) on the front of my house, near the ground, to create cross-ventilation in the crawlspace.
However, when the crew busted through the wall to make the holes, they inadvertently created three new channels for water to move under my house during a heavy rain, which in Louisiana happens approximately every 15 minutes. Since I hired them to help with drainage issues, creating a brand new drainage issue that had to be mitigated seemed counter-productive.
Because I am a determined and crafty DIY problem-solver (another trait I inherited from my parents), I was able to construct a solution with some garden edging and a pile of dirt that I relocated from under the house. I was actually kinda proud of it. Still, I realized that (1) it was by nature a temporary fix, and (2) I had just paid a lot of money for this new ongoing maintenance project.
What I really wanted was for the contractor to create a lasting solution by replacing the breached concrete barrier with a new one. So I decided to ask for it. And as soon as I made that decision, I was aware of two things: it made a lot of sense, and I was totally anxious about the request. Therefore, I asked myself, “Self, what’s up with that?”
Turns out, it was pinging a lot of My Stuff. Being “reasonable” for me has always been a categorical imperative. Typically, it has meant discounting my own desires and leaning as far over the line as I can to make things easier for the other person. (Note: This point notwithstanding, under the appropriate circumstances I can also be a selfish jerkwad.)
The crew had done a lot of things right and I was extremely pleased with certain elements of their work. We were getting along. They had removed their equipment and were on the easy glide path toward project wrap-up. To me, this request felt like a late-surfacing turd in the punchbowl of our farewell party.
Plus, it was reverberating with an old wound around not belonging. Maybe they wouldn’t like me anymore. I would not be part of the Good Guy club. Perhaps there was even some intimidation because they reminded me of the guys who, at an earlier age, would have picked on me in school.
And it was jangling my anxiety about getting it wrong. That maybe this was a request that any reasonable person would understand was Just Too Much. After all, there’s some weird stuff about how that front wall is constructed. I might have made the holes the same way they did. Dammit, where was that manual on How to Do It Right?!? Plus, my well-worn Catholic synapses were in full-on flagellation mode: don’t be selfish, don’t put someone else out, just figure it out on your own.
In spite of all that resistance—and maybe because of it—I knew I had to bring it up whenever the crew returned later in the week to close out some last tasks. Along with yet another emerging issue that would require them to suit up and slide back under my house on a humid Louisiana day and move some mud around. So, I put a note in the To Do list of my planner: “Practice asking.” And that ink was not even dry before the crew unexpectedly pulled up in front of my house. It was Go Time.
In my nicest and most imperfect way, I stated to the crew what I wanted. I followed it up with a pleasant email to the business manager, acknowledging what had gone well, and noting these other issues that needed to be addressed. No MAD AS HELLness. I phrased it as a joint problem we needed to solve, and enlisted their aid.
And here’s what happened: That day they slithered into the mud under my house and fixed the one issue. And they returned the next day with a sack of concrete and wood forms and poured perfect new sills—better than the originals, to be honest. Each task took them maybe 45 minutes.
As I said, I have always put a premium on trying to get along, on being the reasonable guy. I think that was encoded early. I wanted this to be a successful project for all of us. I wanted them to feel good about their work, and I wanted to feel good about it, too. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with trying to facilitate successful outcomes in this way, with doing my part to ensure that things go well for everyone.
But I can’t sell myself short. In order for it truly to go well for everyone, it has to go well for *me* too. So this is my takeaway: If my working model of what is “reasonable” leaves me out of the equation, it’s actually kind of unreasonable.
Asking for What You Want, Part 1: The Flip-Flop Chronicles
Do you hesitate to ask for what you want? Is there a voice in your head that says doing so is pushy or selfish or unreasonable? (Yeah—me, too.)
Recently, I posted about how Being My Mother’s Son manifests in the realm of bulk purchases. While that post was about breakfast cereal, there’s another place it shows up: flip-flops. Lots and lots of flip-flops. I just did an informal inventory and I currently have approximately ten pairs. From $1 cheapos in my gymbag to fancy leather-soled models. A flip-flop for every occasion!
There’s a particular style of Sperry flip-flops (yes, the preppy boat shoe company—don’t judge) that I fell in love with years ago. They’re sturdy, supportive, comfortable, and easy to match. They’ve survived more than one Burning Man. For a long time, they’ve been my everyday footwear workhorse. And they last—typically two years per pair before the centerpiece gives out. They cost about $50.00, but they’ve always been well worth the investment to me.
And then, without even consulting me, Sperry discontinued them. (GASP.) I went online and found a couple of extra pairs from resellers and put them away in my closet. A year later, when my then-current pair went lame, I pulled out one of my back-ups. Ah, Bliss—that new flip-flop feel and smell.
But my joy was short-lived. After two months, curiously, I noticed the right one feeling a little looser. And then—THE HORROR—I experienced a full-on Catastrophic Flip-Flop Failure (CF3). The side piece pulled out of the sole. Two months of wear, which meant they cost me, basically, $7.25 per week of use.
I hadn’t bought that pair direct from Sperry; to be honest, I wasn’t sure where I had gotten them, or when. But it was definitely more than a year ago, which meant any warranty claim was dubious. In my head, this all added up to a whole lot of FAT CHANCE of getting any help with this. So, I just retired them to a corner of my room where I would see them periodically and ruefully shake my head.
And then, last week, nine months after the blow-out, I decided to try. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I went to the Sperry website and filed a defective product report. I told them the story of my love affair with the Santa Cruz, my bulk purchase when it got discontinued, and uploaded a picture of my wounded comrade. I told them which current model would be my preferred replacement. I acknowledged that it was weird situation timing-wise.
I ended by asking if there was anything they’d be willing to do try to keep me as a customer. And then I submitted it, without attachment to the outcome. I figured if I was lucky, I might get a discount coupon for a new pair. Though it was more likely that my message would end up in a Deleted Items folder somewhere on the other side of the globe.
And then this week, a brand new pair of $60 flip-flops showed up at my door. I have another two years of journeys ahead of me and Sperry has turned a loyal customer into a raving fan.
To do it, I had to get past the discomfort that someone on the other end might think I was stupid for asking, given the circumstances. (You see, I have a lot invested in seeming reasonable. More about that in Part 2.) And I suppose, there was a slight concern that the company might alert local law enforcement about an unstable flip-flop fetishist in the community.
And I did it in a spirit of authenticity and good will. I didn’t approach the task from the perspective of I’M MAD AS HELL AND YOU’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS. I just laid out the case as best I could, with particular attention to how happy I’ve been with their brand.
But I truly would have been okay if nothing came of it. I didn’t invest a lot of ego in it, or make success a measure of my self-worth. And now I have a new pair of flips. Gravy, baby, or what we in Louisiana call lagniappe (pronounced lan-yap).
And I also have a new dilemma. Because while doing some internet research for this post, I stumbled across the fact that a department store about an hour away apparently still has THREE PAIRS of the original discontinued model in stock. In my size.
My maternal DNA is S.C.R.E.A.M.I.N.G.
Building New Habits: Maybe You're Trying Too Hard
𝗡𝗼, 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗹𝘆. In fact, it could be that your well-intentioned ambition is getting in the way of your progress.
𝗝𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗖𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝘁𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸, 𝗔𝘁𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗰 𝗛𝗮𝗯𝗶𝘁𝘀: “It is so easy to overestimate the importance of one defining moment and underestimate the value of making small improvements on a daily basis. Too often, we convince ourselves that massive success requires massive action. Whether it’s losing weight, building a business, writing a book, winning a championship, or achieving any other goal, we put pressure on ourselves to make some earth-shattering improvement that everyone will talk about.”
𝗛𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘆-𝘁𝗼-𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗲 “𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘄𝗮𝘆” 𝗵𝗮𝗯𝗶𝘁𝘀--𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆--𝗮𝘀 𝗮 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗰𝗹𝗲 that will lead to big results. Another force multiplier is “habit-stacking,” where you tie a desired new habit to something else you already do consistently. The current habit acts as a trigger for the new habit.
𝗛𝗲𝗿𝗲’𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲. I want to create a habit of exercising in the morning. And I want to tie the trigger to something that I already do every morning. In my case (and for much of the civilized world) that would be making coffee. So, the sound of the coffee pot wheezing and spitting is my cue to go to my room and lace up my sneakers.
𝗠𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗶𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗯𝗶𝘁 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 "𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝘅𝗲𝗿𝗰𝗶𝘀𝗲." That seems too big, because it immediately conjures for me a lot of sweat and effort (based on past exercise trauma), and I’m just not there yet. So, my habit is to put on my sneakers, because I know that once those are on, I WILL go walking. And even if there’s only time to go once around the block, I’m building the habit, the muscle memory.
𝗦𝗶𝗺𝗶𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗹𝘆, 𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝘂𝘀𝗵-𝘂𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗔𝗠, usually during breaks between work sessions. But I don’t make myself “do push-ups.” Again, the very thought can bring a wave of agony (okay, that's a little over-dramatic) and resistance (especially the last couple of ones in each set). Instead, I just drop to the floor, because once I’m there, it’s inevitable that I will do the push-ups. It may seem like a silly and even meaningless distinction, but it’s been super-effective for me. Because it doesn’t take anything to get down on the floor--that’s just submitting to gravity. And once I’m there--well, why not?
𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗶𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗯𝗶𝘁𝘀, 𝗜’𝗺 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲. I’m building muscle memory, so that I can glide into the new behavior with as little conscious effort as possible. In technical terms, I’m upping the easy-peasy quotient (EPQ).
𝗜𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘆𝗺 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗿𝗼𝘄 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝟭𝟬 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝘂𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲, than to force myself to slog through a grueling workout that I will feel all kinds of resistance to repeating. And the odds are, once I’m there I’m going to spend more than 10 minutes.
𝗜’𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘂𝗹𝘁𝘀 𝘀𝗼 𝗳𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴. By making the desired habit easy and automatic through simple cues/triggers/stacking, they find themselves already doing The Thing, whereas before they were sitting around beating themselves up about their lack of motivation.
𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗯𝗶𝗴 𝗴𝗼𝗮𝗹𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲. They can help to galvanize our focus and commitment, and inspire us into a new vision for ourselves. But to get there, it may be way more useful to focus on coordinated systems of small changes. That’s where the compound interest of habit formation builds your portfolio--consistent action over time.
𝗦𝗼, 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗕𝗶𝗴 𝗛𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘆 𝗔𝘂𝗱𝗮𝗰𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗚𝗼𝗮𝗹. And sometimes you just need to lace up your sneakers.
