ST LOUIS, December 1991 –
A dozen co-workers and I rolled into a gala with the false bravado of a crew who really didn’t belong. I wore an ill-fitting suit and felt like a fish out of water, but I was emboldened by our pack. We would turn this into an adventure.
Midway through a year of volunteer service, we had convened for a retreat that happened to coincide with the organization’s signature fundraising event. We did what penniless twenty-somethings would do at such an event: we parked ourselves at the open bar, cracked jokes, and practically knocked each other over when a server with a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops came within twenty feet.
We were fresh out of college, making a $200-a-month stipend. Outside of us, the gala attendees were much more seasoned, and I pegged them all as heirs of the Ralston Purina or Anheuser Busch families, the only companies I knew to be headquartered in St. Louis.
Halfway through the night, I found myself alone at the bar, wondering if they’d give me another two drinks even though I had a half-full beer in my hand. An older woman stopped me before I could find out. She asked what I was doing there.
“We were invited,” I said. “I mean, we work for the organization. We’re supposed to be here.” In my mind, she was a hundred and calling me out for stuffing shrimp into my pockets and slamming Budweisers. In reality, she was probably the same age I am now and was just making conversation.
“I’m sure you’re supposed to be here,” she said. “I just meant, you and your friends are having a lot of fun. I wondered if there was a story.”
“Oh,” I smiled, relieved that she wasn’t going to call for security. “We’re all doing a year of volunteer service. I’m outside of Cleveland. We get together a few times for training. It just happened to be this week.”
“How nice,” she said, and I told her how much we had bonded over this shared experience. How much this time together meant to us.
“Can I give you some advice?” she asked. She was noticeably slurring her words.
“Sure,” I said, wondering if she had dog-food money, and certain I had been slurring mine.
“Life can be really hard. You have your high highs and you have your low lows. Do me a favor…”
I leaned in a bit.
“Keep smiling,” she said, and I’m sure I smiled in response. It felt like an odd thing to say, but I guessed she was admiring our youth, our whole lives in front of us.
And then she continued, spitting out the next four words, her face taking on more of a scowl that turned to joy as she finished. “It confuses the bastards.”
Thirty-three years later, I realize her wisdom. I realize how many times I’ve faced a difficult situation or a difficult person and tried my best to confuse them. Life can be tough. People don’t always act with grace. It’s easy to feel defeated or demoralized. Don’t give them that power.
Keep smiling.
