Sweat the Large Stuff

On July 4th weekend, my wife had a lot of work to catch up on, so I took our four-year-old to KidSpace, a children’s science museum in Pasadena. After only about 15 minutes, a guy walked up to me and said, “Hey, the old man’s section is over there.” I looked it up and it was a friend I used to kick it with about 12 years ago here in LA. He looked quite different and had to reintroduce himself.

THAT part of it has nothing to do with my age. I had a gig on Sunday night and ten people asked me if I remembered them.

Not, “Hey, I’m __.”

But rather, “Do you remember me?”

In some small way, I took that as a compliment that perhaps they thought I was now a celebrity.

(If there’s any way to assume that whatever you’re saying about me is actually high praise, you can bet that’s how I took it.)

I highly value when people remember names. What I can’t stand? “I don’t know about names but I never forget a face.” Isn’t that convenient? There’s absolutely no way to measure the thing that you’re supposedly amazing at. Good for you.

Well, I went 0 for 10. I recalled nobody. And I’m sorry. And it’s always been this way.

ANYway, back to KidSpace. Let’s call this man “Josh.” Josh and I started chatting. He’s married now to someone super cool and has two (also super cool) kids. Our children got along so well that we all went to lunch at this incredible Peruvian restaurant. We had an absolute blast and agreed to hang out again soon.

And this might never have happened.

Last year, I was recruiting people for a roundtable series I shot in my garage studio. We discussed things like:

• In which decade did daily life change the most from beginning to end?

• What was the movie that best captured life in the 1990s?

• If you’re not going to have kids, how would that affect your choice of spouse?

• Is there an objective reality?

Here’s a sample…

I invited a number of my LA-based friends to join, including Josh. This was the exchange.

Man, I was so pissed. Not because it made me doubt the questions. I knew they were good: everyone was quite bowled over by them. EXCEPT JOSH.

I bit my tongue and didn’t reply. Cue up to nearly exactly a year later and we bump into each other at KidSpace and spend hours together. Had I let my anger get the better of me and said what I really wanted to say, I never would’ve had this beautiful experience of seeing our offspring share some food and some laughs together.

Now, this is still me, after all, so while I was talking to his wife, I pulled out my phone and showed her his text. I went way over-the-top and was like, “What the F was up with your husband’s bullshit-ass reply?” She laughed and responded, “Yeah, that was super rude!” “Right??” So, I got my point across.

Here’s the thing I’ve realized. Right before Naveen was born, I asked my wife…

Harsha mused and said, “I want him to be brave.”

I loved that. There are so many right answers, but that one really rings true for me. And I gotta tell ya, this kid is fearless. He plays basketball in a league for four- to seven-year-olds and he walks right up to the biggest kids, strikes up conversations on the sidelines, and then wrestles them to the ground on defense for a jump ball.

You could always count on me for the first one, definitely not the second. Over the years, since everything I do is for my podcast, this blog, or a show, I expanded the question to be:

I didn’t have to think. I knew my answers immediately: my humor and my temper.

So, I took it a step further…

If I already know I want my son to be a certain way and not be another way, why am I not following my own wish?

Don’t I have to model this behavior for my son?

Am I admitting it’s too late for me?

And if so, should I just banish myself to the old man’s section?

It’s really this simple. I just ran my first Gruntled Cohort. Here’s my MVP:

• Mission: “To leave the room feeling smarter and happier than it was five minutes ago.”

• Vision: “A world that sweats the large stuff.”

• Purpose: “To finish what Alexander Pope started: to err is human; to forgive, divine. To improve — now we’re talkin’.”

Every time I use my gift, I’m winning. Every time I use my wit + charm, I’m succeeding in executing my mission and moving toward my vision.

Every time I use my curse, I’m losing. Every time I use my anger, I’m failing in executing my mission and moving away from my vision.

The example I’ve long given is how I act at the airport when there’s a problem with my flight. Most of us have two modes.

I’m sad to say that I’ve been mean and cold and probably got what I wanted but I ruined someone’s day in the process.

I’m proud to say that I’ve done something a bit weird but far more kind:

I pause and smile. I ask how their day is going. I look at them and suggest, “Let’s do this. Looks like you could use a deep breath. Why don’t you pretend like you’re on your computer helping me but just take 20 seconds and zone out?”

Both of those are very Rajiv things to do. The point is to make a conscious decision to be the latter. In life, to me, laughter is the end goal. But it’s also a means. When I use my gift, it’s better for everybody. I get what I want — and give them something they want — if I can just remember that my mission is to leave the room better than it was five minutes ago.

This past weekend, I made an intentional decision to forgive anyone who’d ever slighted me. Because that’s what it is: a slight. It’s small by definition. I’m not sure what the opposite of a slight is…

Injustice?

Grievance?

Blight?

…but that’s different. Someone who truly wronged me is a different story: actual damage, a breach of trust, crossing a moral boundary, something substantial to justify resentment.

After all, there’s a fine line between pride and dignity. Pride’s bad. It’s your ego taking charge. But dignity’s good. Standing up for yourself is what you’re supposed to do. The key is to determine which ones really matter.

Because “Don’t sweat the small stuff” is great advice. “It’s all small stuff” isn’t. Some stuff is large. And that’s what we should be sweating.

I know that decision point for myself: I get this hot feeling in my chest and it’s at that point that I can win this game. Stop, count to ten, take a deep breath, and respond instead of react. Steer away from the curse and steer toward the gift.

On Tuesday, I got a chance to put this into practice. I took my mom to a doctor’s appointment in Pasadena. Come to think of it, also in Pasadena. Pasadena’s apparently my Phoenix.

We had used the same parking garage a few times, and the attendant, Jose, recognized me. I dropped my mom off, then headed back out to grab lunch. At the exit, Jose asked for my ticket. I couldn’t find it. I checked the console, the floor, my pockets, and finally got out of the car to see if I was sitting on it. Nothing. Jose told me the lost-ticket fee was nine dollars. Now, I had been in the garage for maybe four minutes. I could feel that familiar heat rising in my chest.

I said, “Dude, I’m not giving you nine dollars for four minutes of parking. You know, human to human, that’s not right.”

Then, instead of escalating, I asked him how it worked. He told me what I figured: at the end of his shift, his boss matched the tickets to the money. If he let me leave without paying, he could get in trouble. That changed everything. He was not trying to rip me off. He was doing his job. He even asked me, “Whose problem is this?”

I owned it: “Mine. I lost the ticket. But here’s the thing.” And I paused, smiled, and replied, “I have to come back and pick up my mom. She may have the ticket. Let me go now, and if she doesn’t have it, I promise I’ll pay the nine dollars when I return.”

Jose looked at me and said, “You will, right? ‘Human to human’?”

“Yes,” I said. “Also, you know me, you know my car, and I literally have to come back for my mother.”

To his credit, he let me go. I texted my mom. She had the ticket. When I returned, Jose’s shift had ended, but the next attendant, Miguel, already knew the entire story. We laughed, I gave him the ticket, and I asked him to thank Jose for trusting me.

Had I reacted the old way, I might have made two enemies over four minutes of parking. Instead, I made two friends. I listened to the anger. I just didn’t hand it the microphone.

Because it really could’ve gone like this.

Rajiv Satyal is a comedian. He resides in Los Angeles, California.