Monkey in the Middle

You know the situation. You've just exited Starbucks on your way to an important meeting and as you're hustling down the sidewalk, oh-so-careful to not spill your freshly brewed coffee, suddenly something unexpected happens. This act could range from the mundane to the fantastic--perhaps a random fire hydrant springs a leak, or a grizzly bear attacks a mailbox to get that package of Omaha Steaks that got sorted wrong because of some kind of USPS cutbacks. Without even thinking, that mermaid-emblazoned white vessel proves itself skyworthy as you hurl it upwards and cover the fire hydrant with your hands, suppressing the leak. Or perhaps you hurl a freshly ground, extra-hot macchiato-grenade at the bear, stunning it only momentarily. The moment that the icy water hits the canary yellow spring dress or freshly pressed khakis that you decided to wear to your important appointment, or as you spy the pearly foam dripping down Mr. Grizzly's tormented mug, the gravity of the situation sinks in. "Oh piss, oh shit," you say to yourself, your words coming to fruition as you regret upsizing to that venti. And as you look down at your watch, or that you had worn the black trousers or that extra petticoat that looked so drab this morning, or that you had not left your spare elephant gun sitting beside them, you say to yourself, "Uh, wasn't I supposed to be somewhere?"


Now, while this specific introduction has its fair share of hyperbole, the essence is one of reality--at least for myself. This is my 80/20 observation--and one that I have been trying to eliminate over the past year. Eighty percent of the time I place myself in the position of helping or saving others. Twenty percent of the time, I focus on what I need to do for myself. Needless to say, that adds up to one-hundred percent, and many times this seemingly helpful act boomerangs in a way that could be categorized as distracting. For reasons as numerous and mysterious as the stars, I continually find myself covering up the mess, fighting the bear, and generally playing the role of the martyr--all while loosing my cup of coffee in the process. This is not a conscious decision, but one that usually evolves out of a previous, less threatening attachment--a relationship that was going down the tubes, a family member that became ill, or a person in need of a friend. Some might call this chivalrous, some might consider it naive, others may find my displeasure towards these actions as stupefying.

Before you get the wrong idea, I am not opposed to charity or helping others find their way or any other act with altruistic ends. In short, I ain't no Debbie Downer. But I do realize that these actions come with a price. Personally, it has been at the cost of individuality. Many times it is easier to buy into the cause of another than to mint one of your own. Up until recently, when asked what my interests were, both academically and personally, I may have mumbled the equivalent of "stuff" and moved the conversation to the topic of weather--where opinions are always proved wrong and misinformation seems the norm.

It is easy to say that our actions have consequences when we are speaking on the topic of morality--where a clear right and wrong can be measured in feet and inches. When are performers of the "right thing" to begin with, and then we suffer, an ethical choice--one between two rights--must be made. Can we always keep water from spilling on the sidewalk? Are we better for fighting that rabid grizzly bear for reasons that are not our own? How long will the middle keep that proverbial monkey content?