First Class

Marissa checked her e-mails. A lot of junk mail. One from a friend. Then her eyes lit up. My God. She actually heard from him. 

She read the short note: Loved meeting you on the plane. Can’t wait to have lunch. Let me know what day is good for you. Jeremy. 

She time-traveled back to that day they met. She’d been visiting her folks. She was tired and crabby, waiting to see if she could even get a seat on the plane. Fly- ing standby was inexpensive, but it had its downside, too.

Coach had been full. But the good news was she got to fly first-class.

She found her seat, settled in. The one seat on the plane that was still empty was the seat next to hers.

Great, she thought, resting back in the seat. I was the last person to board. I  get to sit alone. I can sleep all the way home. 

Then a man appeared standing next to her.

“Hate to bother you,” he said. “But can I get in and sit down?”

She didn’t pay much attention to him at first. It wasn’t like her to chitchat with strangers on planes. She planned on sleeping on this flight; it was a long one. But she never slept. The two of them talked the entire time.

He was gorgeous. Those eyes. So gentle and deep. He was intelligent. Sensitive. He had read some of her favorite books. And that suit. It reeked of money and success. She loved powerful men.

The only problem was he was married. With kids.

She was surprised when he asked for a date. “I don’t believe in dating married men,” she had said.

“We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. I like your company. We can just meet for lunch,” he replied.

Marissa thought about it. What she did next surprised even her: “Here’s my e- mail address. Get in touch with me if you’d like.”

She paused. Then smiled. “I can always say no.”

She didn’t think she’d hear from him. And not this soon. She read the e-mail a couple of times, then picked up the telephone receiver and called her best friend. She told her all about him: handsome, successful, sensitive, and married with kids.

“Hold on,” Marissa said when her friend started hollering. “That’s why I didn’t give him my phone number. I told him I thought it was wrong.”

“It is,” her friend replied. “And I’m not willing to put up with you when you get all crazy and guilty because you’ve violated your standards.”

“But we’re only talking about lunch,” Marissa said. “What’s the harm in that?”

“Tell me all about it, then,” her friend said. “Go ahead. Project. Tell me exactly what’s going to happen at lunch. Think ahead, Marissa. Tell me what’s going to take place.”

“We’ll meet at the restaurant. Probably some quiet place.”

“What are you going to order? Spaghetti and meatballs?”

Marissa thought about it. “I probably won’t order much. Something easy to eat.”

“Why?” her friend asked.

“Because it’s embarrassing to chow down in front of a man.”

“Not if he’s just a friend,” her friend said. “So what happens next?”

“We’ll talk for a while, then go out to the parking lot.”

“Then what?” Her friend said.

The whole picture became clear. It ran through Marissa’s mind. She didn’t have to say any more. It wasn’t about lunch. The date was about sex. That handsome, gorgeous hunk with the sensitive eyes was really the devil wearing an Armani suit.

“Thanks,” Marissa said.

“No problem,” her friend said.

Marissa walked over to the computer, deleted the e-mail, and blocked any more messages coming from that address. What helped Marissa was a good friend who was willing to play truth or consequence.

Cause and effect is a game of ironies.

To keep it—whatever it is we’ve got to give it away. To walk through the door, we need to hold it open for others and let them walk through first.

The real irony of learning to successfully—or as successfully as possible for human beings—play the game is a secret I’ve spent most of my life trying to learn. In some situations, yes, do what feels right and do what you think. But the voice of reason and intuition often speaks much more softly than the voice that eggs us into drama addiction and troublemaking. You know that one. It likes to light matches and play with fire.

Besides the big hard calls we make, there’s another kind, too. It’s the little ones we face each day: do the right thing, or stir up the pot. Do the next thing, or sit and sulk. Relax and let go, or obsess. Pick up the phone, call someone, and be of service; or dwell on how stuck and miserable you feel. Feel, or go numb. Do something that feels gentle, nurturing, and nice, or sit and torture ourselves.

We have times when we genuinely don’t know what to do next. Confusion runs rampant. But every so often we get this little troublemaking voice egging us on. Making the hard calls isn’t just doing the opposite of what we think; often it’s doing the opposite of what that troublemaking part of us suggests we do next.

People get bored. We can sit in the dark. Light matches and play with fire. Or we can use our free will to play the game of cause and effect by making the little hard calls that bring real light into life.

Stomp. Scream. Cry. Tell someone how it feels. Talk it out, reason it through first.

The hardest person to be honest with is usually ourselves.

From the book: Choices: Taking Control of Your Life and Making It Matter