TEN THINGS
Can you name ten things you do well? . . . Um, well then how about three?
Oh come on now, you must do at least three things well!
What, me first? Okay. I write well, I’m a good father, and I pay my bills.
Yes, I know other people write well, other men are good fathers, and many people pay their bills. I didn’t ask you to list things that you do better than other people. I just asked what you do well.
Just because other people also do things well, doesn’t detract at all from you doing it well too.
Who cares how many other people do something well? If you do it well, then you should pat yourself on the back and take credit for your accomplishments.
So exactly where did this idea come from that unless you do something better than other people, it doesn’t really count? Maybe it’s from the dreaded “C” word: “Competition.”
Competition is such a cornerstone of our society. We’re christened into the “religion” of competition at a very early age when our parents say such things as, “Look how well your brother sits quietly. Why can’t you do that?” Or, “Your sister isn’t crying just because she can’t have an ice cream. Why can’t you behave?”
Things get worse from there: Spelling bees; science fairs; sporting programs; who can sell the most cookies, popcorn, or baked goods during fund raisers; vying for the affection of another who already has a boyfriend or girlfriend; scholarships; jobs; promotions; the list goes on ad infinitum.
I’m not saying that competition is a bad thing. It’s the emphasis upon competition that may be over-inflated.
I know some youth soccer coaches who stress the teamwork aspect of the game as primary and winning as the natural outcome of successfully implementing teamwork. That seems like a healthier approach.
Regardless, there is this “winner take all” reward system that ultimately reinforces the power of competition. Knowing this, I can predict the season outcome in every sport whether professional or amateur. One team/person wins and everybody else loses.
In a society that places so much emphasis on winning, it’s no wonder you can’t think of even three things you do well. There is an implied message that in order for you to claim proficiency, then you must be the best — best in class, number one, the reigning champion.
Being a champion is certainly an honor. But being second, third, or even ninth takes absolutely nothing away from your effort or ability. Being less than first may mean someone did better than you on that day or in that season, but if you performed to the best of your ability, then you still did a damn good job, too! Our self-worth need not be defined in terms of other people.
Whether you win a trophy or not, your accomplishments are noteworthy. If you succeed in achieving positive outcomes and doing it in ways that promote harmony between yourself and others, then you’ve earned the right to feel proud of your accomplishment.
So now, can you tell me ten things you do well? Here’s my list (and I’ll only limit it to ten):
- I write well.
- I’m a good father.
- I pay my bills.
- I make people laugh.
- I can cook well.
- I take care of my body and health.
- I can sing.
- I’m good at my job.
- I give to charity.
- I’m a safe driver.
MEDICINE
Commercials for prescription drugs seem to make up the majority of commercials on TV these days. The list of side effects on many of these drugs is long and sometimes, ominous. I wonder who’d actually take a chance on medication with side-effects like blindness or having a body part drop off. And some of the warnings make no sense —like sleeping medication that states “drowsiness” as a side effect. Well, duh.
I’m very disappointed with Western medicine. Why can’t doctors be more like the ones on TV when I was growing up? Marcus Welby, M.D., was always kind, never in a hurry, and never made mistakes. He’d never diagnose a cramp in my side as appendicitis. He wouldn’t ignore my concerns that my cold had turned into pneumonia (which it did). And he’d never have his assistant’s assistant attend to me while he stared at a computer screen.
I thought seeing a female doctor would make a difference. And it did. The woman doctor touched me with hands that must been have refrigerated. I nearly fell off the examination table from shock. She asked me if I was always so jumpy — like it was abnormal to want to avoid deathly-cold hands on one’s private parts. Nor was she particularly gentle in her examination. I left the office feeling like I’d been groped. So give me a male doctor with a cold stethoscope and warm hands any day.
Medicines have come a long way from the folk remedies available in earlier times. But we still use one in my household. It’s Drambuie, a Scottish liqueur made from malt whiskey, heather honey and herbs. The liqueur is our family cure-all for any complaint imaginable, and even if one has no complaints. I carry a mini-bottle in my purse for emergencies. Does your back hurt? Have a couple of Kilt-lifters (a Drambuie and lime-juice concoction). You have a cut on your leg? Pour some Drambuie on it. The baby is teething? Rub a little Drambuie on the kid’s gums — it shuts him right up.
Why is it the cheaper the prescription medicine, the bigger the pill? There must be something about saving money on generics that dictates a horse-pill sized medication. Also, the pills are chalky, with no coating to make swallowing them any easier.
I have trouble swallowing pills anyway. These super-sized ones are nearly impossible to get down. Even when I cut one in half (and don’t lose the other half in the toilet bowl) I’m still left with pills too large to swallow without a milkshake chaser or loaf of bread.
Sometimes, preparing for a medical procedure is worse than actually going through it. Personally, I’d do anything to avoid the prep for a colonoscopy. I never knew my body harbored so much excrement until I had to flush it all out. I will forever associate lemon-lime flavoring with the buckets of liquid laxative I took to accomplish this. At least the constant outflow and trips to the bathroom made me swear off food for weeks afterward.
As an alternative, I could’ve swallowed a small camera to take pictures of my gut en route. I suspect this would only make things easier for the doctors. They’d just wait for the camera to do its shutter-bug duty and deliver the goods. I’d probably still have to endure the clean-out procedure though. With my luck, I’d flush the camera down the toilet, thinking I’d passed yet another stool. Or worse, the pictures would end up as a YouTube video with butt-joke captions.
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