7.19.2015
saturday snapshot
4 April 2015
It wasn't just any old Saturday at Keeneland as I drove up to the Louisville lot that morning.
It was a beautiful Kentucky Keeneland Saturday. Crisp, bright, nearly cloudless. The rains of the previous week had caused just enough misery to reward us with those ever-familiar rolling hills of budding bluegrass.
I came bearing three of my mom's most-prized camping chairs that sit in the back of her Acura SUV on the other 51 weekends of the year, searching for familiar faces as I wove through the endless rows of open truckbeds, coolers, and red-and-white-checked tablecloths. From a couple rows over I spot a familiar back-of-a-head; Annie's setting up a pair of cornhole boards.
The driver's side door to the SUV closes as I'm greeting her, and I'm introduced to Robert. He's currently the official photographer for Centre, and we exchange brief life synopses as the three of us unpack the sacred camping chairs. Normally, I would turn down any form of IPA, much less a double IPA, but I acquiesce to Anne's offering... its abhorrently unpalatable taste will slow my drinking pace, and free beer will indeed always be free beer.
Anne's brother Joe arrives on the scene a few minutes later, just as the conversations have lulled into us reaching for the tray of Chick-fil-A nuggets, which are perhaps better cold. Jennifer and Sara arrive to even the ratio of males to females, and we all begin the process of sunburning our foreheads as bluetooth speakers pair with our devices to start the party.
I take a look around - this is an excellent group of people. Everyone is happy to be out at the races, and the weather lends an electric vibe to the day. Bud Light Lime provides a reprieve for me after a Solo-full of double IPA swill (Trust me West Sixth, it's not you, it's me), and we settle in for a friendly game of cornhole (or BAGS, as midwesterners insist... brief aside, I always envision BAGS being in capital letters due to the accents of everyone that has ever used the term BAGS to me). We toss repeatedly, knocking over neglected BLL's and recalibrating our only-so-often used cornhole skills. We take turns at the helm of the bluetooth jukebox, introducing the latest and greatest of our itunes and spotify accounts.
Several beers and trips to the edge of the track later, the six of us have settled into an afternoon groove. We observe a brief moment of silence for the battery life of the bluetooth speaker, and Joe switches on the SUV's radio system.
It wasn't just any old Saturday at Keeneland as I drove up to the Louisville lot that morning.
It was a beautiful Kentucky Keeneland Saturday. Crisp, bright, nearly cloudless. The rains of the previous week had caused just enough misery to reward us with those ever-familiar rolling hills of budding bluegrass.
I came bearing three of my mom's most-prized camping chairs that sit in the back of her Acura SUV on the other 51 weekends of the year, searching for familiar faces as I wove through the endless rows of open truckbeds, coolers, and red-and-white-checked tablecloths. From a couple rows over I spot a familiar back-of-a-head; Annie's setting up a pair of cornhole boards.
The driver's side door to the SUV closes as I'm greeting her, and I'm introduced to Robert. He's currently the official photographer for Centre, and we exchange brief life synopses as the three of us unpack the sacred camping chairs. Normally, I would turn down any form of IPA, much less a double IPA, but I acquiesce to Anne's offering... its abhorrently unpalatable taste will slow my drinking pace, and free beer will indeed always be free beer.
Anne's brother Joe arrives on the scene a few minutes later, just as the conversations have lulled into us reaching for the tray of Chick-fil-A nuggets, which are perhaps better cold. Jennifer and Sara arrive to even the ratio of males to females, and we all begin the process of sunburning our foreheads as bluetooth speakers pair with our devices to start the party.
I take a look around - this is an excellent group of people. Everyone is happy to be out at the races, and the weather lends an electric vibe to the day. Bud Light Lime provides a reprieve for me after a Solo-full of double IPA swill (Trust me West Sixth, it's not you, it's me), and we settle in for a friendly game of cornhole (or BAGS, as midwesterners insist... brief aside, I always envision BAGS being in capital letters due to the accents of everyone that has ever used the term BAGS to me). We toss repeatedly, knocking over neglected BLL's and recalibrating our only-so-often used cornhole skills. We take turns at the helm of the bluetooth jukebox, introducing the latest and greatest of our itunes and spotify accounts.
Several beers and trips to the edge of the track later, the six of us have settled into an afternoon groove. We observe a brief moment of silence for the battery life of the bluetooth speaker, and Joe switches on the SUV's radio system.
nice
Hi, I'm a nice guy.
While this may be a somewhat inherent character trait, it has also built upon years of skillfully shaping my niceguyness into something that is nearly always recognized by family and friends.
I always say please and thank you.
I hold doors for people.
I say ma'am and sir.
I respect my elders.
I generally defer to others' choice of restaurant.
I go out of my way to avoid confrontation.
I apologize even when apologies are unnecessary.
I'm also genuinely just a little awkward, but socially aware enough that I recognize it and make fun of myself for it. Which is incredibly charming to anyone paying attention, might I add.
What strikes me as most interesting, though, is how easily my niceguyness is (mis)interpreted as good-natured and innocent. People LOVE nice guys. They laugh at your jokes, they like your pictures on instagram, and they flood your facebook wall with birthday posts.
Thank you all so much for the birthday posts, texts, and calls. It means the world to me to be surrounded by such great people every day of my life. Here's to another trip around the sun! #blessed
Now, while these are all well and good, and I'm no man to say no to a couple dozen facebook likes, I've got to say: I'm sick of being treated like a nice guy.
I'm sick of the hidden meanings of words like nice and innocent, which are usually veiled ways to say naive and ingenuous - childlike. I feel like everyone is trying to protect me; keep me in this plastic bubble to which I've grown so accustomed. What's funny though - as much as I want to pop the bubble, I can't. Because I'm in the fucking bubble.
I'm so used to being a nice guy that I legitimately have trouble understanding not being a nice guy. How am I that much different from your average Joe? Does everyone actually suck that much? The optimist in me (cringing as I wrote this sentence so effortlessly) doesn't think so. Perhaps I have my parents to thank for this debacle - it is with a hint of sarcasm that I say - why did you instill in me these godforsaken manners? did you know what you were doing when you were teaching me these things? Why would you condemn me to this life?
Upon further research, I actually googled the phrase "nice guys finish last" (desperate times call for desperate measures). Aside from the snarky e-cards that read, "Nice guys finish last cause yo gurl always comes first," (clearly catering to the wittier side of us nice-guys) what struck me is that nice-guy is usually accompanied by a Mr. Agreeable attitude. The recommended strategy? Don't be a nice guy, be a great guy. Be a man that isn't afraid to stand up to people; stick to a few key principles, and fight for them. THEN, you'll be a great guy.
But that doesn't really quite capture it either. Being a great guy, in my mind, doesn't make the distinction from nice guy that I'm looking for. For some reason, my mind immediately divides the categories as a deathmatch showdown: nice guys vs. assholes. Still working on an in between.
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