No means yes

No. There. That wasn’t so difficult. But, if you’re anything like me (and I suspect some of you are) saying “no” is harder than it sounds. I’ve always had difficulty telling people I don’t want to do something. “No” isn’t a four letter word in my vocabulary else I wouldn’t have a concern. So, be it resolved, this year I will say “no” when I really want to say “no.” This year, when my gut tells me to say “no,” I won’t ask for a few minutes of silence while I ponder the matter or a “let me get back to you.” I’m just going to go for it. Further, I will start 2012 by making a list of the “no mores.” The “enough’s enough” when I’ve finally come to my senses and decide it’s okay to stop doing or being a part something I may have once agreed to, but really should have had the intestinal fortitude to refuse in the first place. Whew.

So, a great big “no” to the dark purple walls in my office/studio. I never wanted purple walls in my house yet, I said “yes” when COM asked, “Please, Mom. Could you paint my room in dark purple which will defy primer and paint when I leave home to seek my fortune as a grown up and you move your closet-sized studio into my much bigger, darker room?” Well, she didn’t really say all of that, but I vaguely remember saying “yes” to the dark purple—it seemed more civilized than black, at the time. And so, two coats of primer and three coats of paint later, I have said “no” to dark purple. Okay, okay, for the three years plus since COM left, I have worked in the “teenage angst cave.” My “no” came after an unfortunate wind and rain storm during the late summer of 2010 that caused some serious damage in the “cave.” After a week of pre-Christmas repairs, drywall, lathe and plaster dust and noisy fixes, the cave is now a definite “yes.” If that “yes” isn’t a “no,” I don’t know what is.

Over the years I’ve been lured into doing some pretty time-consuming, stressful, volunteer jobs, usually entailing the kind of work I would have been paid to do in another life but, because of the flattery thing, I said I would help out. I’ve participated in events and fundraisers that have been distracting, trying and often uninteresting to me. In short, I haven’t exactly been true to myself and a little sweet-talk would find me smiling while chomping down on my own tongue. You’re reading this and nodding. A lot of you know what I’m talking about here. We all sign on to collect for something, direct something, chair something or advocate on behalf of something. We agreed but, if the truth be told, mostly we just aren’t into it. Personally, I’ve always been flattered to be asked, but today (January 1, 2012) I’ve finally looked up “flattery” in the Urban Dictionary. Yikes, I should be way past needing to have my “arse kissed.” Right? I don’t want to spend the rest of this year swearing under my breath as I gather up my notes and head out to another three-hour meeting of “unlike” minds.

Two thousand and twelve will be the year I say “How sweet of you to think of little old me but this doesn’t meet my needs right now. But, I do have a weakness for flattery. You’ve got my number, pucker up and try me again in a few days.”

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca