Guys and Dolls

Nearly eight years ago, on our honeymoon, I surprised my new husband with tickets to a play on the last night of our travels. We started our trip in California (it’s where they keep the wine) and then took a long train ride up the coast, making stops along the way, and ending up in Portland. I wanted to be able to surprise him with something and when I saw that a production of Guys and Dolls was playing within walking distance of our hotel, I bought two extremely good—and pricey—tickets after a very lengthy conversation with the theatre director, during which I asked for the experience level of the actors, the comfort of the seats, and the average temperature of the auditorium.

I needed this to be perfect.

So, the night of the performance I came out of our hotel bathroom wearing a little red dress to find him—as I had instructed him to be—in a nice shirt and sports coat. I was giddy as we walked out of our hotel and into the cold night, him still unaware of where we were going or what we were doing. We walked a few blocks and then, right in front of the theatre, I inhaled sharply. He looked up at the marquee and let out an excited laugh.

During the first act I kept my head turned slightly toward him, my eyes darting back and forth between the stage and his profile. We’d been married less than a month, but I felt like I could read him. I mean, I hadn’t yet seen him recover from a vasectomy, and he hadn’t yet seen me have an episiotomy, but I felt we knew each other pretty well. So I was mildly panicked that he looked so uninterested, so unimpressed—pissed, even—during the first half of the play. His brow furrowed, his mouth a simple and unmoving straight line.

Had I just married a man who wouldn’t even smile for a group of professionals singing and dancing their asses off?

When the lights came up for intermission Jim turned to me and exclaimed:

“This is amazing!”

I starred at him blankly.

“You’re liking this?” I asked.

“What’s not to like! This is great! Let’s go get a drink.”

And up he jumped excitedly, darting off in search of Scotch.

I walked slowly behind him and wondered, yet again, if I had worried too much about what someone else thought.

A worry I’ve struggled with my entire life.

I recently watched an interview with the utterly brilliant Amy Schumer. She was recounting to the talk show host an explanation her friend had given as to why she is so funny and successful: because Amy Schumer doesn’t care what people think.

Ah, those brilliant and bold people who claim they don’t give a damn what other people think.

How refreshing. How empowering.

How utterly full of shit.

For someone to be successful at being funny, one must care deeply about the thoughts of others. That’s how an audience works.

And yet the ability not to care what others think continues to be a standard to achieve--by comedians or otherwise--as though it’s some sort of universal compliment.

No successful woman (and certainly no man) would ever say: “I credit my success to the fact that I really care what people think.” Nope. Because caring what people think is a really bad thing. We are supposed to go boldly in the direction of our dreams. And if we hurt people along the way, that’s life! Go forth! Be selfish!

Now, as a person who cares deeply, immensely, about what other people think, I struggle to reconcile why it’s such a bad thing. But I’ve been conditioned my entire life that the ultimate goal of a person is to not care what other people think. So I spend a lot of time trying to squelch my natural inclination.

My own struggles with what people think started young. Super young. It hit its peak around junior high, naturally, but it never really tapered off from there. In fact, in many ways, I feel more invested in what other people think now than I did in my adolescence. And that’s saying something.

Now, let me be clear here. When I worry about what others think, I’m not worried about what they think of me. I mean, I want my mother to think my hair looks good and my daughters to think I’m perfect in every way, but those thoughts don’t consume me. I don’t care if people think I’m smart. I don’t need people to find me pretty. I don’t even worry what people think about how messy I let my car get. Those types of thoughts don’t touch me.

But I do concern myself with many, many other thoughts people have. I care what people are thinking. I naturally want people to feel heard and happy. I like to be helpful, and useful, and if I know what people are thinking, I’m more likely to be both. Also, both of my professions—professor and writer—demand that I care what people think. If my students aren’t learning, or readers aren’t reading, then I’m the one responsible.

So whether by natural inclination, or by professional obligation, I give a lot of shits what people think.

Recently, I had a long advising session with a student. After she left, I couldn’t stop thinking about our talk. I replayed the conversation over and over in my head for the rest of the day. Was I too flippant about her problem? Did I really listen enough to her emotions around it? Was I pushing her in a direction she didn’t want to go? Was there leftover pesto in my teeth?

And while I always feel very present when I speak with students, I often find myself analyzing our conversations later. Always concerned about what they are thinking. What they took away from our time. Did I provide quality advice? Many students get a follow-up email from me to confirm they felt heard and supported.

You can’t imagine how many of them say they completely stopped thinking about our conversation the second they left my office.

Beyond that, the concern over what people think infiltrates my parenting. Well, more the concern over how much to care what people think.

My favorite trait in my oldest child Lowery is her complete disregard for anyone else’s time or energy. It’s also her most exhausting and annoying trait. But I marvel at how many questions she can ask, how many items (food or otherwise) she can demand, and how many stories she can tell in the span of one hour. Let alone the entire day. And the last five years. Often, when she’s in the middle of a 20-minute diatribe, I look at her and realize she does not care one bit if I’m annoyed or tired or irritated. She has things to say, answers to learn and food to eat. What I’ve got going on is of no matter to her. And I can yell at her as much as my larynx will allow when she’s in trouble, but she’ll just shrug and keep on asking questions and demanding a snack in the blue bowl.

I often find myself coaching her to care a bit more what other people think. Me, in particular.

My favorite trait in my youngest child London is her complete interest and fascination with how others around her react. It’s also her most exhausting and annoying trait. But I marvel at how many hugs and affectionate pats she needs, particularly after she’s been in trouble for throwing food at the wall. The only way to discipline London is to hold her in my lap and tell her in a soft voice, while stroking her hair and wiping her tears, that I would really prefer she not punch her sister in the face. And then I reassure her that I love her and that I’m not thinking anything but good thoughts about her.

I often find myself coaching her to care a little bit less about what others think. Me, in particular.

I know I’m not alone in the struggle over how much to care about what other people think. I’ve seen my husband worry about what his parents think of his professional accomplishments. I’ve seen my students worry about what their current boss would think if they took another job. I know my friends worry what other mothers will think if they use bug spray containing DEET.

But perhaps worrying about what our parents would think, or our boss would think, or what the other mothers would think, gives us some accountability. Gives context to our decisions, our behaviors, and our actions.

There’s a danger in caring too much about what others think, sure. If it stops our ability to make decisions, or endangers our relationships, or makes us behave in a way that conflicts with our principles.

But the real danger is in the other extreme. When people really don’t care what other people think. Because all that does is lead to the comments section of any news story on social media. (By the way, the child who got in the gorilla cage also had a father.)

Caring about what other people think is actually a lovely thing. It’s the purest form of empathy and we should celebrate it a little more and shame it a little less. After all, it’s the only thing keeping humanity in check.

During the Guys and Dolls intermission, while enjoying cocktails in the lobby, I told Jim how surprised I was to know he was enjoying the play. I explained how I thought he was hating it, that I had feared I had made a huge mistake in buying the tickets. He laughed and questioned why I would ever be worried about what he was thinking. I explained that his facial expressions didn’t match what he was clearly feeling, and that I had spent the entire first half of the performance worried he wasn’t having a good time.

To this day, if either one of us finds the other’s expression not matching what they should be feeling, we demand the other stop “Guys and Dolls-ing” it. My students will tell you I have Resting Guys and Dolls Face when they are giving presentations in class. My daughter says I have it any time she’s asking a long series of questions.

Back in the theatre, patrons milling around and drinking their last drops of cocktails, Jim leaned into me and said, “It’s actually really great you cared enough to worry about what I was thinking.”

Yeah. Of course it was.

It’s possibly one of the greatest human traits: empathy. And so what if that empathy kicks into overdrive sometimes?

I did want him to have a good time. I did care what he was thinking. But after intermission, and a cocktail, I really focused on the second half of the play, my head squarely facing the stage, my eyes unmoving. And I loved every minute of the performance.

But as far as what Jim thought of the second half?

I couldn’t have cared less.






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