I’m Still Writing

I’m a nice person. Truly I am. Generally speaking. I have a wicked resting bitch face. I know I can flare my temper. However, overall, I am a nice person.

But every nice person has their tipping point.

Two years or so ago, I was introduced to the game of soccer. Both of my nieces play soccer and though it had never really been a sport on my radar, I thoroughly enjoy watching them play. Watching the nieces play soccer also accompanied meeting a whole new group of people – soccer parents. Some I clicked with immediately. Others it took time to become friendly.

And then there was Jane. Obviously her name is not Jane. I’m not even sure why I’m protecting her but I still feel the need to be nice.

Two years ago, at the first game where I met Jane, I knew we were not going to work. And we didn’t need to, I was fine with that. And I still would be, if Jane wasn’t still pushing my buttons.

From the very beginning of our time together, My Life Hostage and I always told the girls they could call me whatever they wanted, they could introduce me however they wanted and they could refer to me anyway they wanted. We, more specifically I, never wanted to force the title of aunt down their throat. I wanted them to feel comfortable with wherever our relationships went.

The particular soccer game in question, my younger niece was introducing me to a friend of hers and said something about me being her family. I just smiled. But Jane was having none of that. She basically reprimanded my niece, letting her know that until her uncle married me, I was not family. As I was feeling around for my jaw that had hit the bleachers, she turned to me and said, “Well that is how it works.”

Oh is THAT how it works? Thanks for clearing that up for me.

Fast forward, every game without fail for the past two years, Jane has had some comment she’s had to share with me. Something that irks me but never really sets me off. Nothing I lose my shit over.

Today I almost lost my shit.

While ogling over a baby with the rest of the ladies at the game, I got told by Jane to get my baby fix in while I could, because if you ask your Life Hostage to have a baby, he’ll tell you no f-ing way.

She said this while touching me. For those who don’t know me, I don’t do well with the touching. I do fine with family and friends touching me but if I don’t know you, keep your paws to yourself. When I later texted a friend about this and explained she was touching me, his response was, let me know where I send the funeral flowers. I am a legit touch free zone.

Again, I am a nice person. Really I am. If I wasn’t, today’s situation would have probably turned out very differently. But it does make me wonder, why? Why do people have to make the comments? Why do people have to judge others? Can’t we all just be nice?

Last weekend, My Life Hostage and I were having a drink at a local bar, talking through some scenario that required me to draw out diagrams on a napkin. After about 15 minutes, the engineer in him said, “So what are you basically saying?”

I flipped over the napkin and wrote BE FUCKING NICE. I thought our waitress was going to choke on her gum when she saw that. And while it does have some humor to it, the crux of the situation is relevant and pertinent to all walks of life.

Here’s the point, do not judge my life by the chapter you walked in on, I’m still writing. Instead, be fucking nice. It doesn’t cost a thing, it’s not really all that hard to do, and in the end, it is the right thing to do.

Yet, I still feel bad for Jane. Sometimes I wish I could turn the nice person inside me off, it would be much easier. But in this case, I can’t. I feel bad for her because she doesn’t have what I have. And trust me what I have is everything. I have love, laughter, tears, affection, compassion, fear, support, trust, loyalty, and a full family life. Not everyone has those things. And I feel for those that don’t.

But just maybe, they’re still writing too.

Rachel Olszewski

A hot mess held together on a daily basis by dry shampoo and probiotics, Rachel is still trying to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up but for now is a communications professional by trade. A true Chicagoan through and through, she is an East Coast transplant trying to set down roots. Although the height of her high heels may be getting shorter, Rachel’s expectations are not getting lower and she is on a mission to change the world one person at a time.

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