Some of the best people I am privileged to know have nearly nothing in common with me, except that we occasionally are in proximity to each other. For example, an acquaintance of mine who lives nearby is a woman whose lifestyle and manner are jarring to me. But this same person graciously shared the bounty of her garden with my family, meaning that we’ll have lovely tomatoes, squash, and cucumbers set aside for this winter.
Do I agree with her about, well, anything? Not really. By the definition I placed above, she is a good person.
In contrast, how about the person in my life who feels the right to lie, abuse, belittle, manipulate– but then offers money to my family? It is tempting to accept the cash, but it’s never given without strings, usually more of the treatment she deals out. By the above definition, this is not a good person.
I have arrived at a point in my life where I find myself weary of allowing bad people access to myself and those whom I consider to be my family. For definition, “family” includes the people who both have loved me at my best and stood by my side during the worst. Many of those whom I consider family are not related by blood, but by love. Some have known me since before I was born, and some have recently entered or re-joined my life. Time and geography have no bearing on these people.
So what does this musing mean? It means that I have decided that I no longer tolerate users, narcissists, or sycophants. Why? Because these little monkeys deserve it. And so do I.