No More Mister Nice Guy

“Hello,” she said, picking up the kitchen phone. “No. Not yet. Yes, they’re both here. Okay, let me just give it to him and I’ll meet you at Neiman’s in about twenty minutes.”

Upon hanging up, my mother walked into the dining room, picked up a large white Macy’s box, and dropped it on my lap.

I was sitting on the couch in the family room, with my fiancé on my right and my father, sitting in his La-Z-Boy recliner on the left.

My father removed his glasses and squinted as the gift slid off my lap to the floor. “What’s that?”

My mother rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it his birthday?”

“Last week,” I said. “You didn’t have to get me anything. Really. Especially something this heavy which could injure a body part.”

My dad put his glasses back on. “Why would you give him a present and then drop it on him?”

“Warren, next time you go shopping for him. Ellen and I thought this would be perfect for him to wear to the out-of-towner’s dinner before the wedding. Speaking of which, I’m on my way to meet her momentarily.”

I opened the box with my fiancé and father, staring with unbridled bewilderment.

“Oh. Um, thanks. Um, wow. A turtleneck and linen pants. Thanks?”

My mother walked into the kitchen and reached for her pocketbook. “Steven, if you hate it, you can return it. Do what you want.”

“No. No. It’s very sweet of you. I mean, you do know the wedding is in June. Here. In Florida.”

“You’ll need something to wear, won't you? I asked your father if there was anything you wanted, and he said some sort of electronic thing. Your sister and I liked this, and I would think you would as well.”

My father scratched his head. “I was gonna get you the PDA we talked about, but they said that you wanted this. Did you say you owned nothing to wear for the party?”

My fiancé squeezed my hand. “I suggested that we should get him something because his closet is filled with the 80s section, some early 90s and of course six Members Only jackets.”

My mother was headed for the laundry room, which led to the garage and her car.

“Well, now he has something.”

“Ouch.”

I squeezed her hand a little tighter than I intended.

My father turned back to his golf match and asked if we wanted to go out for dinner later that evening to celebrate my birthday as he eyed Tiger Woods lining up his first putt of the afternoon.

“Oh, yeah. That, um, would be really, um, terrific. I, um, look forward to it.”

“Okay. So, you both go home and get cleaned up and can you please do me a favor and shave? Go hang up your new clothes. How about if we meet at the club at say eight? In fact, it’s your birthday, so let’s meet at the bar for a cocktail at seven-thirty.”

“Don’t you have to clear this with the boss?”

My father turned his recliner towards us, still sitting on the couch.

“I’m the boss around here. I can do whatever I want.”

I stood up. “Oh, really?”

“Really, big shot. Besides, we discussed it before you walked in. Your sister and brother-in-law will be there. I thought your mother would have told you, but I never heard it come up. We already have the reservation.”

“Oh. Some boss.”

As we said goodbye and headed for the front door, I heard my father yell, “Hey. You forgot your gift.”

Linda stared at me as I walked back to the sofa to retrieve my closets new addition.

I turned up the radio while backing out of the driveway and began singing, “All I need, all I really need is good lov…”.

She pressed the button for the radio so hard it turned off and then back on. Message received loud and clear. There would be no singing.

“Don’t you get it. Why didn’t you say something?”

This was a rhetorical question. The yelling was so loud she had no reason to stop. Thankfully, she was ignoring the music. “And another thing…”

“I said, Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah,

(Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)

Yes, indeed, all I really need

(Is good lovin')

Gimme that good, good lovin

(Good lovin')

All I need is lovin'

(Good lovin')

Good lovin', baby.”

While singing in my head, I’m thinking maybe this is the story of my life. Maybe she can calm down. Maybe my mother and sister could change their attitude towards my fiancé and, well, me. All I need is good lovin’. Why does trouble always follow me around? Do I have a “kick me” sign on my back or something?

“Answer me. Now. When are you gonna tell your mother that you hate her gift? You told me your father was gonna get you that PDA. She and your sister obviously decided they wanted me to look like an idiot. They do not like me. What don’t you get about that? By you walking into the out-of-towners party wearing a turtleneck, I will look foolish and they know it.”

“Look, Linda…”

“I know my name, thank you. You are too nice to them. You’re not gonna say anything. I know you. You are to leave that box. You are to tell them to return it immediately. Do you understand me?”

We walked up the steps to my apartment, sans the box.

“Your mother and your sister hate me. Hate me. People know that I will be responsible for what you wear that night. They’re trying to make me look like a fool.”

Opening the door and turning on the light, I thought about the way she makes everything about herself.

“Look, maybe they just wanted me to look good for that party.”

“It will be a hundred and ten degrees. They want you to sweat and look like a fool. What’s worse? I’ll be included in everybody’s thoughts. You are to tell your mother that she is to return that and then tell your father to buy you the PDA.”

“Linda…”

“I know my name thank you.”

I always seem to walk into that one.

“It was nice. They at least thought of me and I will not insult them.”

“Insult them? You idiot. She dropped it on your lap. Dropped it. Didn’t hand it to you. Didn’t bring it to the club to give it to you later tonight. Didn’t say Happy Birthday. Nothing. She didn’t even tell us about the club. Your father did after she had left. They hate me, and you will not stand up for me. Tonight, you are to tell them you hate the gift.”

“But base upon your logic, won't they think me hating it is all a result of you really hating it,” I said hoping she would see where I was headed and not continue biting my head off for something I did not do.

“I hate you!”

“What higher praise can one get from the woman he will be marrying,” I thought as I watched her run to the bedroom and slam the door.

I exhaled and turned on the television in the living room. She was probably right. It was no secret my sister had little regard for Linda. My dad asked what I wanted and after setting my expectations high, I was let down like a lead balloon.

The yelling continued for the next three months. She was relentless. How could I say anything to my mother?  I took it. I didn’t even do anything, but I took everything. For three months I refused to bring up the topic with my mother.

I learned amidst the screaming that my sister reveled that night in seeing me in the clothes, sweat pouring down my brow.

I could not control my mother or my sister and her feelings towards the woman I was to marry.

The bigger issue, I was to learn, was how unhappy I was with Linda. I learned years ago that when people are angry; they say exactly what they are thinking. Rarely, if ever, did she apologize. Her narcissistic tendencies showed regularly.

There is a great deal to be said about being a nice guy. “Jeez,” I thought. “I’m not that nice. So, what is it? I researched. I went to the library. (Please raise your hand if you remember a building called the library).

And I learned.

There’s a common misconception out there that there are only two kinds of men, Nice Guys and Bad Boys.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

A nice guy isn’t a nice guy. He’s someone who’s afraid of speaking his mind and stepping on toes, so he constantly obliges and panders to women, his superiors, and his friends in a desperate search for approval. Ouch. That sounds familiar.

To put it simply … nice guys are pushovers.

On the other hand, bad boys are the complete antithesis of the nice guy.

They don’t care about other people and are completely caught up in their own world. They will push others around, lie, and manipulate to get what they want.

That’s not me. I can never do that. Well, maybe a little.

So, what if there was a third kind of person? And what if I learned to become that person?

This option will be referred to as a “Grounded Man.”

He’s kind, polite, courteous, and considerate of others. But he also knows what he wants, speaks his mind, and will make other people uncomfortable, if need be, for the sake of his mission.

I am working towards this option. I can remain nice but speak up. Who knew one could speak up and remain thoughtful?

I am far from there, but I have changed my life. It took years, but my wife is now my ex and my sister who refused to acknowledge her continuation of making my ex look bad when we were together, is, unfortunately, a memory.

I surround myself with positive people. I do not need quantity. I need quality. I needed to separate from the negative, and how hard was that?

But being a pushover? No more. It’s like AA. One day at a time and positive thoughts.

Let me tell you, it’s a lot nicer place to be.