I hate being told what to do. There’s no beating around the bush with this pet peeve. I seriously despise someone giving me unsolicited advice, no matter how well-intentioned.
It flips a switch somewhere behind my ears, my entire face gets hot and I can hear my heartbeat in my head. It’s one’s of those things that I know I certainly cannot control: I am going to say something. Something dark and menacing and totally, completely serious.
Let me illustrate: I’m out playing a game of pool with some friends. Doubles. I’m carrying the winning team into the second game. It’s been 4 or 5 years since I’ve played a serious game, but I was starting to get my legs back. And then it’s my turn to break. I’ve never been great at breaking, never sucked – but I have a style that I’ve honed over years of growing up in a billiards hall. It’s unique, and it works for me.
But it didn’t work so well for me that night. I didn’t scratch, just a weak, off-putting break. And right then, my counterpart and competition decide it’s time to school me. All shark-like, they got to show the girl how to hold a big ‘ol pool stick.
I thought my instant look of disinterest and disgust would’ve kept them from going on any further. I can give a really nasty look when I’m unhappy. But they, being so wrapped up in making sure I knew that they knew more than me, didn’t realize I had absolutely no interest in their lessons. I didn’t ask. I don’t want know.
And instead of being a major bitch (only a minor one), I took my partner aside and quietly said something to the effect of, “Please don’t ever tell me how to play pool again.”
And HE was offended and told me so over and over again. Did I point out his flaws in the middle of the game, or show him how to properly bank a side shot into the corner? (which he missed consistantly) Did he have any idea of even how to rack the balls properly? No. Did I raise issue? No. It was a game. A game. I like to win, but more than anything I like to play. By the rules. But we have our own styles – and if we can’t play unimpeded by other peoples perfectionistic ideals, then it just gets boring and tiresome. Fuck that.
That’s what I’m talking about. I have no problem with real authority, in fact, I like it. I’ve always been a fan of teachers and policemen and people in high regard with tough responsibilities. I like rules, I follow them – red means stop, green means go.
I have a life full of responsibility and sometimes it gets overwhelming. I’m grateful that I have friends and loved ones I can dump on and talk to about my worries with. I just dislike greatly the suggestions. Men tend to do this more so than women – as men always want to “fix”. But I’m not talking or venting so someone can grant me a solution. I’m unloading so I can make space in my own mind to figure it out. That’s what I do. I’m a figure-it-outer.
And I like to think I do a pretty good job. Granted, there are times, lots and lots of them, that I need ideas and help and creative thoughts that I just don’t have. And then, I’ll ask. I’ll inquire as many sources as I can and take in all the information I need and make a decision. But unless I ask. Please, don’t tell me what to do.
My mother, in all her wise and kind ways, has always known this about me. She’s found a very clever way to disarm me when she feels the need to tell me her thoughts on a particular situation. She begins with, “May I make a suggestion?….” and then I have a choice. And I always say yes … well, cause she’s my Mom, and she’s always got really good suggestions.
But that one, simple phrase keeps me from getting offended and gets me informed. Which, is really, the ultimate goal. Even when you’re as stubborn as me.
