Emily was just about to slap a bumper sticker on her car when I begged her to stop and give it to me instead. It now sits framed on my bookshelf and simply reads:
May God Grant Others the Wisdom to Let me Control Them
That's funny-- especially to a Jewish mother.
But it got me thinking: How often do I cross that delicate line between caring and protective-- and downright intrusive?
I struggle with my inner yenta and honestly don't know if yentaitis is an inherited trait or learned behavior. Whichever it is, I got it.
I honestly never knew I had this annoying tendency until I was a young adult. It was pointed out to me as I sat in the backseat of a television van in New York. The cameraman and his sound engineer were in the front and we were on our way to cover a story for the CBS Evening News.
"I gotta remember to make a call after we shoot."
Just a statement made by Alan, the sound guy-- out loud to himself. Not to me, not to anyone else. But my not-so-attractive trait just couldn't keep itself at bay.
As soon as he finished muttering I took out my legal pad and right next to my producer to-do list I wrote: "sound man phone call when back in truck."
We wrapped up the shoot, stowed the gear and headed back to West 57th Street in Manhattan.
About a minute into the drive I leaned forward and chirped, "Excuse me, Alan, remember to make your phone call."
Whoa. I didn't expect his reaction. Usually low-keyed and on the quiet side he turned to me and in a firm, sarcastic way said, "You're not my mother. I don't need you to tell me what to do."
A light went off in my head. For the first time I realized I was a buttinsky. I had crossed the line from being responsible and concerned to being a pain in the neck. A few days later I shared this epiphany with Alan, apologized and thanked him for opening my eyes.
Years later I went to graduate school for a psychology degree. The first day of class was one I'll never forget because the first words out of my professor's mouth were:
"You can only take your patients as far as you're willing to go yourself."
Another light went off and I flashed back to that day in New York. The professor was right. How in the world could I help others with control issues if I wasn't willing to work on that myself. We spent the remainder of the class sharing stories of important and not so important transformations.
I piped up said that I've learned to look at life as the proverbial "journey." And that working on personality traits we're not so fond of is really a gift. It reminds us we're human and we're imperfect.
Now, if I could just get everyone to agree with me.
Earlier on Huff/Post50:
