My present and future son-in-laws are wearing high heels this weekend.
They’ll be “Walking A Mile In Her Shoes” Saturday, 9 am, at the Downtown Promenade to help fight domestic violence and raise funds for One Safe Place.
This is a noble effort, and I’m proud of them. But since most men don’t don sling backs, you may wonder what made them decide to do it. The answer is quite simple: They’re caring, self-assured, thoughtful and decent guys.
And my daughters talked them into it.
My girls have powers of persuasion they inherited from their mother. True, I am a speech coach, but I assure you that in our family it’s Karin who usually prevails in a battle of wills.
When I share this fact in my debate class, it’s met with disbelief.
“But you teach argumentation,” my students scoff. “So why don’t you win?”
“Well, knowing the rules doesn’t mean that you’ll always prevail. But,” I add reassuringly, “you’ll usually know why you lost.”
This is not what they want to hear, but it’s true. I can teach technique, but some people have a natural edge that puts them over the top.
Karin is one of them.
So, you may ask, how does she do it? Pull up a chair, and I’ll share with you some of her Zen-master moves that I’ve learned by observing her for years. Trust me, you won’t find these in a textbook.
You’ve Been Owned
This occurs when you succumb without knowing you’ve been beat.
The match begins with Karin and I sitting quietly in the den, grading papers. The TV runs unattended in a nearby room after one of the kids left it on.
“Isn’t that show loud?” Karin asks.
I shrug, not looking up. “What show?”
“It’s so distracting,” she continues. “I can’t concentrate.”
Then, without thinking, I stand, walk to the set, and return to my seat before it even hits me.
I turned off the TV when it wasn’t bothering me.
Score one for Karin.
The Ninja-Noodge-Nurses of Public Health
Well, you may be thinking, she’s got you trained. And that’s true, but it’s not the whole story. Not by a long shot. Karin’s not hesitant to ply her skills on total strangers. In fact, it’s her profession.
She’s a public health nurse.
And what is a public health nurse? Simply put, they’re do-gooder nurses that are ninja-noodges. Their job is to get people to do “healthy things.” But, alas, most people have the self-preservation instincts of a loofa sponge. So public health involves a certain amount of behavior modification aimed at the unwilling.
It’s not an easy job.
Recently, Karin took a graduate course in “marketing public health.” The core assumption of is that people know what they ought to do but often can’t be bothered with silly things like wearing a seat-belts. Because, of course, the buckle might wrinkle our clothes.
Public health is charged with the unenviable job of reminding us all that windshields can wrinkle our skulls.
But you can’t tell people that. Instead, you have to make it—whatever you’re pitching—seem smart, attractive, alluring. You need to make people think that getting vaccinations or putting fluoride in their water will make Hugh Jackman or Anne Hathaway want to make passionate love to them.
And there is a certain truth to this in that the preconditions for passion are usually:
1. Being alive.
2. Not having pustulent dental caries.
But, alas, while I meet both these conditions, Anne isn’t returning my calls.
Nor is Hugh.
Of course, you can’t always turn to the prurient when pitching health, especially when kids are involved. You have to have other appeals, too. Still, you must adhere to the classic advertising dictum:
You don’t sell the steak, you sell the sizzle.
And this can happen in ways large and small. Heres how it works.
Convincing the Kiddos
On our walks together, we often see kids on bicycles or skateboards. When we do, and they’re wearing helmets, Karin has a standard greeting.
“Hey, cool helmet.”
Often as not, they frown, and peddle past. Then I’ll tease her.
“Behavior modification 101? Nice try, but I don’t think they bought it,” I chuckle.
Karin is unfazed.
“It’s all about positive reinforcement,” she replies, “and persistence.”
“So that’s it?” I ask, remembering that Karin’s brother once described her as “tenacious as a tick.”
“Oh, and over-the-top enthusiasm,” she says and then illustrates her point with a story.
“Remember that campsite at the R-Ranch,” she asks, “the one with that smelly old porta-potty?”
I flinch involuntarily. “Who could forget?”
“Well, once I saw a mother and daughter walk up to it, and the woman said: ‘Let’s use the rocket-ship restroom!’ The girl dashed inside while mom counted down to blast-off.”
I was amazed. “No whining?” I asked. “No complaining?”
“Nope,” Karin said. “The girl was giggling the whole time.”
“Wow,” I shook my head. “There should be award for that.”
Recalcitrant Robb
Of course conning the kids is easier than working mind-magic on a middle-aged man. Karin has her work cut out for her sometimes when it comes to getting me on board. For instance, I’d rather stick my head in a microwave oven than attend a “formal event.” Anything that requires me to leave my Hawaiian shirts in the closet is a non-starter.
Yet you’ll see me out in a monkey-suit at times. Why? It’s one of those things we guys do for love.
Of course, Karin isn’t so obvious or manipulative as to say: “If you love me, you’ll do this.” No, she’s much more savvy. Often she’ll buy me a couple of brand-new snazzy shirts. Not Hawaiian-prints, but something in one of my favorite shades of blue or red with a subtle but interesting design and cut. I’ll come home from work and find that she’s displayed them on the bed.
“Try these on,” she’ll suggest. “I saw them and thought they’d look great on you.”
I’m a sucker for a new shirts, so I do.
“You know,” she says, “these would be perfect for the retirement party.”
She holds up a tie and jacket.
“And I think these match nicely.”
Oh-oh, I think, and rapidly shed the shirt.
“Maybe your orange shirt works better?” she asks innocently. “What do you think?”
A bit of advice here guys, there is no correct answer to this question because the underlying ninja-trick assumptions are that:
A. You’re going.
and
B. You’re dressing up.
But sadly, if you’re like me, you’re so repulsed at the idea of wearing a jacket that you don’t see what’s happening.
“NO JACKET!” I say, crossing my arms. “And you can put the ties away, too.”
“But it looks better with a tie.”
I sigh. I am encouraged that she’d dropped the jacket from our discussion. But I’m not giving in on the tie.
And then I see the dress pants.
“OK.” I say, “I like the shirt, and I may wear a tie, but no slacks.”
“So you’re wearing denim? Really?”
She holds up the crisply-pressed pants.
“These new slacks are so flattering.”
She rolls up two ties and sticks one in each front pant pocket while I shake my head.
“Why don’t you wear the tailored pants, but bring your denim in case you change your mind?”
I’m quiet a l-o-n-g time. Then she comes over and gives me a hug.
“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” she says. “But it will be fun.”
“You say that every time,” I say.
She kisses my cheek.
“And don’t you usually have fun?”
“Sometimes,” I admit.
“Usually?” she persists.
“Yeah, usually.”
I end up wearing the shirt, slacks, and tie. But no jacket.
You take your victories where you can when dealing with ninjas.
Fun Makes You Forgetful
I have to concede that many of the truly wonderful decisions I’ve made I did with reluctance.
That’s because I tend to worry.
I fret over time, over money, and over the ever-present possibility that our outing will be a disaster and we’ll end up on the evening news, win a Darwin Award, or—worst of all—be reduced to calling Dad to bail us out.
But the strange thing is, once I’m persuaded to go for it, most of the problems I’d dreaded never occur, and fun things happen that I’d never imagined.
In short, Karin’s powers of persuasion are usually a win-win for everyone. When I look at our family albums, I see hundreds of photographs of Karin, our kids and I out having in fun. If I’d waiting until we had the money and all the time I thought we needed, we probably would have done far less.
She’s the best thing that ever happened to a world-class worry-wart.
What inspired me to write this week’s theme was the amusement I felt over watching the men in my daughters’ lives being “worked on” the way I have been for decades.
I even got in the act and told them about how much fun it was and why they should do it. So I became a novice-noodge.
And then I bailed. My bad, but I have an excuse.
I received an invitation to attend the 85th anniversary of Bakersfield Colleges’ Renegade Rip, the school newspaper where I got my start. I owe a lot to the Rip, and it was instrumental in training many of the journalists in Kern County. It’s an institution the school treasures.
So do I.
Next year, I’ll be back to Walking a Mile In Her Shoes. I already have my heels picked out. But until then I’ll be supporting the guys who are out there, and I encourage you to do so, too. Here’s the website.
http://www.ospshasta.org/events/walkamile.html
And if you’re there, say “hi” to two men who are special to me: Austin Wright and Frank Eller. You can tease them a bit if you like. They can take it. It takes a real man to wear women’s footwear, proof enough that they’re my kind of guys.
Robb has enjoyed writing and performing since he was a child, and many of his earliest performances earned him a special recognition-reserved seating in the principal’s office at Highland Elementary. Since then, in addition to his weekly column on A News Cafe – “Or So it Seems™” – Robb has written news and features for The Bakersfield Californian, appeared on stage as an opening stand-up act in Reno, and his writing has been published in the Funny Times. His short stories have won honorable mention national competition. His screenplay, “One Little Indian,” Was a top-ten finalist in the Writer’s Digest competition. Robb presently lives, writes and teaches in Shasta County. He can be reach at robb@robblightfoot.com.
