The Courage to be a Big Weakling

Posted on August 28, 2002 in Attitudes Neighborhood

A shred of guilt, wiggling up through my chest like a maggot, appeared as I drove past three people pushing a heavy American compact up the hill where Marguerite bolts away from El Toro. I didn’t have my cel phone, so I couldn’t make a call. I could only send my sympathy, but they wouldn’t have appreciated my stopping for that.

I have a bad back and asthma. Most men understand this. A few women do. When I decline to help someone push around heavy tables or move a refrigerator, the white worms start to pop up. Sometimes I get rebuked: “A big strong boy like you!” some whine as they attempt to shame me into doing a task that will almost certainly do me some bodily injury.

I used to give in to the shame. My mother taught me how. She insisted that I mow the lawns even though doing so would invariably precipitate an allergy attack. She was a registered nurse and she believed in her drugs and special equipment. She bought me filter masks. When I came in snuffling and wheezing, she’d point me to the bathroom. “Take one of your chlorotrimiton for the allergy, a theolair for your wheezing, and be sure to use your inhaler.” It could take up to three days for me to recover from the chore. Then Saturday rolled around and I’d have to be at it again.

I’ve learned not to feel shame when I reject the calls for me to do what is beyond my capacity. A teacher of mine scoffed when I wouldn’t move some heavy tables in a classroom. I told her “My wife has forbidden me from moving things because of my back.” She snorted. A not so helpful female student added “She’s not here.” I replied: “That may be so, but she’s the one who is going to have to sleep with me tonight, not you.”

I seriously doubt that the three people would have appreciated having me stop and recount the reasons why I couldn’t help. So I just drove on. But now and then, someone sees me and thinks “Well, I can use him to help me move this couch into the loft.” If there are enough people to do the job, I might help. But usually I excuse myself. The smart and kind people understand. The stupid and cruel ones whine.

I’m reasonable about my limitations. I am six foot four inches tall. If someone asks me to get something off the top shelf in a supermarket, I cheerfully fetch it. I change lightbulbs without a ladder. I can even reach a bird feeder hanging off a high window to refill it. These tasks I will do for others. It’s the stuff that warps me, that threatens to leave kinks in my body for several days that I reject. I’ve learned that it takes courage to say “no” to a woman who wants you to push her car up a hill; courage that is not too dis-similar, if somewhat milder, than that of a teenaged girl rejecting the advances of an amorous boyfriend. I am not proud to be a wimp, but that’s what I am. I am resolved that no one will shame me into breaking my body because of vanity or an obsessive compulsive need to redecorate.