Just like me.
Small towns keep you honest. There’s little anonymity to soften the hard edges of character flaws. I was reminded of this one hurried morning recently when I needed to grab the mail on my way to work. Of course I got stopped at a light, and when it turned green, the annoying texter in front of me failed to go. I tapped the horn, a split second longer than really necessary, changed lanes, and bustled through the intersection. As I scuttled by the blue Toyota, my look of annoyance barely muted, I recognized the nicest person in town, my pediatrician’s nurse.
A good friend recounted a scene from the grocery store last week: a customer approached the meat counter, either not noticing or ignoring a woman standing 6 feet back, queued up for her turn. When the butcher asked the man to take his place behind the waiting customer, the man sputtered and fumed, then walked past her and mimed coughing in her face. (He was tracked down and asked to depart the store. No toilet paper for you, mister!)
I like stories about slaying dragons (or assholes), and I used to habitually keep my own sword sharp. But I’ve learned the hard way that, whether it’s rudely laying on the horn or aggressively mocking a cough, reactionary behavior rarely gets a good result. While our households have been on lockdown, our brains have been, too. One result is decision-making influenced by fear and stress. A brain on fear always acts the same way, whether it’s facing the threat of a grizzly bear attack or contemplating the possibility of losing one’s health or livelihood.
That’s right: the brain processes actual threats and perceived threats the same way, deploying blood and oxygen to large muscle groups to fuel a fight or flight action. Unfortunately, this hijack of your big, beautiful brain leaves it with the executive function of a potato chip. Just when it needs to step back, think, and act, the brain is short-circuited by threat, leaving you armed only with the horn, the sneer, the verbal jab . . . or worse. And no saber-toothed tiger in sight.
Jerks are gonna be jerks, but when we encounter them, we pile on a whole bunch more unpleasantness if we confront, blame, escalate the conflict, and re-enact things a thousand more times in our minds. When I find myself mentally reaching for indignation and judgement (about every hour and a half), I start a mini-mindfulness practice designed to remind me that we all act less than awesome under stress. Borrowing from the Jackson Hole Chamber of Commerce’s value of “connection,” I reach for a reminder that we’re more alike than different. It goes like this:
This person wants to be safe, just like me. This person wants to feel control, just like me. He, like me, has people he cares about and things he worries about. He has hopes and dreams, just like me. He has stress and anxiety, just like me. Sometimes, he lays on the horn, snaps at his kids, or has a really unattractive tantrum, just like me.
I’m not excusing assaultive or threatening behavior, ever. I am simply offering up the idea that in this world where our interconnection is increasingly obvious, the best thing we can do in the face of these scenarios is to expand. Make your capacity for caring bigger, not smaller. That capacity, the ability to connect with and empathize with others, even when they’re wrong, means you get to have a better day.
The jerks will still get theirs. I promise. (No toilet paper, remember?)
This week’s 5-minute guided meditation: connection
Listen to this short meditation that will remind you to expand, not contract.
This week’s pocket practice: Just Like Me
Each time you’re at a stop sign (or beginning a Zoom call), pause.
Look at the person closest to you and think:
“This person is trying, just like me. This person hopes for safety, just like me. This person might be part of the solution, just like me.”