Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the full list of Monday Dares or learn more about its origin.

This week: More nice. More real. 

After years of being an ill-mannered asshole, I recently bragged to a friend that I had finally mastered the Art of Nice. Before, if I didn’t like someone, I would feel compelled to just push them in the face and walk away. This still seemed fairly ladylike, as two people who don’t get along often end up in knife fights. Or so I hear. I wouldn’t know about such things. I’m very innocent.

Now, I can look someone straight in the eyes, laugh at all their jokes and pretend to find them extremely charming, all the while thinking, “I hate this bitch.” To me, it seemed like a step in the right direction. Adults are pleasant. Pretend pleasant, semi-real pleasant, really-real pleasant: all badges of honor when you can’t stomach the shady character in front of you.

This sage friend pointed out that authenticity is magnetic. That people can often sense when something is…off.

She’s right. These days, when I meet someone new, I try to assess one thing quickly- Is this person a diamond presence or a crotchety motherfucker?

It’s probably a good idea not to know these questionable folks. In the end, someone gets hurt, and cleaning up fresh bloodstains is probably not the best way to spend a Friday night. Not that violence only happens on Friday nights. But that’s neither here nor there.

I am slowly learning that I don’t have to like everyone, but more importantly, not everyone has to like me. We don’t all have to hold hands and sing Kumbaya in the middle of a park professing our love for each other. Mostly, this doesn’t appeal to me because I don’t know all the words to Kumbaya.

I want to spend more time being really-real pleasant to the people I really-real like in my life. I bet I don’t tell them enough how much I appreciate and love them. How good it is to know that I can count on them for anything. And how they can count on me for anything…unless I’m hungry or tired or there’s something good on television. Then, they’re on their own.

So, that’s it. No more fake nice. It’s freeing to know that I don’t have to declare silent war on someone when we don’t see eye to eye. I can walk away. I can choose not to let that crotchety motherfucker get under my skin. Unless *they* push me in the face first. Then it’s on.