5 Highly Annoying Things That ‘Nice’ People Do

We all have some vicious, horrible people in our lives. But we also have some nice, well-meaning ones that grate even more on our nerves. So, if you’re a ‘nice’ and ‘sweet’ person who is wondering why all your calls go to voicemail and why all you see is a twitching curtain when you ring the doorbell,  perhaps you’re guilty of the sins below.

  1. You open requests with “It would be nice if you could…”

When did “Could you please” or “Just do it the fuck already” go out of fashion? It makes me want to spit when someone says it would be nice/good/great if I did something. It is the most sly and repugnant way to emotionally blackmail someone into doing your bidding. If you say no to such a request, you’re basically admitting to not being ‘nice’, to being a horrible person with no moral compass or human decency. How can you even say no? Sorry, but I don’t think I want to be nice? No thank you, I’m just going to carry on doing the not-nice thing I was doing? A direct request does not put the other person in this position of being nice or not being nice.

People who use “It would be nice…” think they’re being very tactful and open-ended, but really, they’re just being assholes and insulting your intelligence. Slap them down.

Example: “It would be nice if you could get the groceries on the way home.”

Answer: “It would be even nicer if you could.”

This normally causes the nice person to snap back to reality and say, “Just do it the fuck already.”

  1. You hound people to wish others on their birthdays and anniversaries.

Guess what? Facebook is the mega-aunty of the entire freaking world. Facebook’s job is to remind you that it’s your second cousin’s birthday or your ex’s wedding anniversary (screw you, Facebook). People who are not on Facebook are too cool and unconventional to care whether you wish them or not and in any case no one can be bothered to stay in touch with them.

Yet, despite these contemporary realities, some people continue take it upon themselves to call and tell you to greet a relative or family friend on their birthday. If you refuse, they might even try to steal your phone and change their voice to wish that person, who clearly will not be able to survive the day without your greetings. These are people who buy birthday presents and add your name in the gift tag even though you didn’t even remember the damn day.

I once had a relative who called to thank me for a giant bouquet of flowers that I DID NOT EVEN BUY (another relative did, on my behalf). It was disturbing, like a stalker movie in which you don’t mysteriously get flowers but mysteriously give them.

This behaviour is unacceptable because the “nice” person in her own sneaky way is trying to run your relationships for you. For some reason, they are invested in how well you get along with or please someone else, and they feel everything will collapse into a heap of regrets unless they pull the strings.

The point is, if you’re an adult, you’ll remember if something is important to you. If you forget, you will, like an adult, deal with the consequences. Either way, no one but you should try and determine whether your relationships live or die, or if there are some frosty silences at the next family gathering. A relationship built on reminders by a third party is a lie. Choose truth.

  1. You do everything for everyone, and you never complain

Lovely, right? No, manipulative and painful. You may be proud of never complaining, but your eyes always have the look of Jesus on his cross, and your tubercular cough is a persistent reminder of how you’re being taken advantage of. But try and help you and you’re outraged, you won’t allow it for a second, you stop coughing and insist on doing the washing up/childcare/filing. But when the dustpan is handed back to you, the tortured eyes and hack are back in five minutes. Guess what? You’re not helpful, you’re just addicted to being a martyr.

  1. You prefer maintaining a dignified silence to fighting

I’ve already written about this at some length.

  1. Your favourite saying is “to each their own”

Fool. It just shows you are too gutless and desperate to be liked to express an opinion. Now if you really did not have an opinion, it would be OK. It’s just a sign that you don’t think very much and that’s acceptable. However you DO have an opinion and guess what, it leaks. Your pained expressions, hurt sniffs, and sighs of disapproval don’t escape anyone. When you say “to each their own”, what you mean to say is “no better can be expected of these savages.”

 

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The Fetishization Of Travel

Being a stay-at-home mother in a somewhat nebulous employment situation, I appreciate the fact that people are no longer as quick to ask, “What do you do?” It’s a refreshing change from the early 2000s, where every dinner party served as a reminder of career failure. But if anything, I probably resent the replacement conversation starter even more: “Where have you been?” If you don’t give the right answer your life failure is clear for everyone to see.

It is assumed that you are cash-strapped or your kid is a travel hobgoblin or that perhaps you do not fit into an airplane seat.

Thankfully, when that question floats out, someone or the other usually pipes up with revelations of hiking in the Andes or scuba diving in the Andamans or volunteering in Bundelkhand and sharing a hovel with former dacoits. What can I say? I’ve been to the grocery store? To Bangkok? These answers — if you manage to make them heard over the cacophony of exultations over Everest Base Camp or Saint Tropez — are still acceptable, though. It is assumed that you are cash-strapped or your kid is a travel hobgoblin or that perhaps you do not fit into an airplane seat. You are offered pity and murmurs of encouragement rather than contempt.

Try telling the truth, though, and most people look at you as if you’ve whipped out a cervical mucus sample. They wrinkle up their noses, they edge away, they suddenly discover a pressing need to make amends with a former friend they haven’t spoken to for a year. You have marked yourself as a boring person. Someone who is not fun. Who knows what you might want to talk about next? Hepa versus ionic air purifiers? Cartesian dualism? Cat poo? There’s something not quite right about you.

So, I may as well say it. I do not like travelling. If I can avoid it, I will. For me, a trip is usually like being dragged to a distant cousin’s wedding, having a sort of good time and thinking “this is not so bad” — and then coming home, kicking off the nasty gold high heels and saying, “Never again.” The packing, the waiting, the cramped spaces, the hotels, the tourist traps… once a year — once a year is my limit. I’d much rather despatch my child to play school, make some sandwiches and read an Inspector Wexford mystery – hello Sussex, bye bye NCR.

 

Airport hell. Must I really do this???
Airport hell. Must I really do this?

 

Do you think I’m hopelessly narrow-minded? Provincial? Fearful? I don’t think any of that is true. It’s just that I sometimes feel as if my horizons are made broader, the distance I’ve covered is greater and the relaxation I’ve felt is deeper on my own darn couch — I have truly felt immersed in different cultures through books and even TV shows, and never more alienated than as a tourist rooting about in her pocket for enough change for the next “authentic” experience or photo-op. Can I not just shudder at Amazonian leeches and learn about their life cycle on Discovery Channel? Must I have my blood sucked by the disgusting little critters? Can limbo dancing on a cruise ship or relinquishing my savings to the dark forces of Disneyland really connect me better with the people of the Caribbean or the United States than a session with VS Naipaul or Jonathan Franzen?

If I’d been single, I probably wouldn’t have been writing this. It’s virtually a law that you must include a passionate love of travelling in your online dating profiles.

In real life, “connecting” with the locals means you’re either intruding or presenting a business opportunity… no matter how many times one flings one’s arm around the neck of a Turkish waiter or a wrinkled Ladakhi woman or an Afghan chieftain (not recommended) and presses click. All too often, the “other” encountered in the course of one’s travels is assigned with qualities of unparalleled nobility or wisdom. Deep conversations with cabbies are noted on blogs, artful photographs are taken of smiling urchins — every air ticket should come with a guarantee of free life lessons. Really, can I just say I’ve had it with pictures of wrinkled Ladakhi women or sadhus at the Kumbh Mela and their transcendent qualities that you think rubbed off on you?

Now, of course travel does widen your horizons, and is in fact necessary for personal growth in some ways. What I have a problem with is the not-so-subtle pissing contest, the endless comparisons of travel creds. The assumption that you must keep going to “bigger” and “better” (whatever your definition of these) places to signify momentum in your life. It’s ridiculous that travel has become a yardstick by which we measure the achievements and qualities of other people, or even ourselves.

It’s not that I’ve had a hopelessly static existence. I’ve studied abroad, travelled to many countries and places in India, I’ve had a gorgeous destination wedding (not my idea, of course!) and spent a large chunk of my career working for travel publications, including a stint as a commissioning editor for Lonely Planet, that bible of evangelistic high-carbon-footprinters. I once won the first prize in a national-level travel writing contest, my disingenuous outpourings subsequently preserved in a book. Basically, I have lived with the imposter syndrome for too long and it is time to come out.

This fetishization of travel, to me, ultimately reflects a particularly shallow and materialistic view of the world and its people. How far you’ve gone matters, not how far you’ve come.

“Coming out”, of course, is made easier by the fact that I have found a life partner. If I’d been single, I probably wouldn’t have been writing this. It’s virtually a law that you must include a passionate love of travelling in your online dating profiles. You must match passports where you once matched horoscopes. It’s no longer enough to say you enjoy sunsets or walks on the beach or a cup of good coffee. It has to be sunsets at the Serengeti, strolls along Kroh Kradan, coffee brewed from beans freshly defecated by Asian palm civets. Then, my friend, you might get laid on the first date.

“Date a boy who travels” say viral blogs — boys whose “hands have explored the stone relics of ancient civilizations” (conservationists, are you listening?). “Date a girl who travels”, say others, because “she’s seen so many things, met so many people, and if she had chosen you, better grab that opportunity.” Implication: people who don’t travel are not adventurous, they’ve probably never met another human being or had an experience in their life. Really? Is going from point A to point B to point C and Instagraming every moment all that matters?

This fetishization of travel, to me, ultimately reflects a particularly shallow and materialistic view of the world and its people. How far you’ve gone matters, not how far you’ve come. Some people are already taking this fetishization to the next level. If you’re as hot as Natalie Wood here, you can offer your companionship to rich men for a free vacation. Inspired? Try specialized dating services like MissTravel. Forget the person you’ll be with, just think of the places he’ll take you. It’s as if nothing else matters. Even on social media, you’ll find that apart from the odd virulent political comment most friends will reveal nothing of their lives other than where they have been. Cocktails made of dragonfruit, feet in various scenic locales, the Eiffel tower, zebras, coral reefs, sunset profiles, suggestively unmade hotel beds, mountain vistas, delighted leaps caught mid-air… these have become the tropes of our lives, proof that we’re having a good time. It is as if we want to deny the authenticity of the mundane, it’s very existence. Life isn’t worth much unless you’re elsewhere. Pleasure must be chased, but contentment is taboo. Movement is everything, stability is stagnation. This ethos, this selective exhibitionism, exhausts me. I’ve always wanted someone I could be still with.

I understand that Indians of the particular subsection I belong to are mobile in every way and this reflects in their obsession with logging airport check-ins, their preoccupation with flight, with elevation — literal and metaphorical. But it’s all become part of a new class system, where homebodies are the lowest in the pecking order. How can anyone want to be where they are? How can anybody want to stay in the lives they’ve built? Guess what, they can. All it takes is some imagination, a Kindle account and cable TV for some of us, and I’m not going to apologize for it any longer.

I'd rather stay put, thanks very much
I’d rather stay put, thanks very much

 

I ‘Got Over’ My Miscarriage Easily And It’s Freaking People Out

“It’s happening,” I whispered to my husband, smiling in the dark. It was 1am, our daughter was asleep, and what I was feeling were unmistakably contractions. Not long after, I felt an urge to push, but instead of racing to the hospital, I went and sat on the toilet and let the inevitable happen. I was having a miscarriage, and I felt nothing but relief in that moment.
Later in the day, once the goriest parts were over and I went about my routine as usual, I felt a certain discomfort. Wasn’t I supposed to cry, to grieve, to be miserable for days on end, especially considering this was a much wanted baby that I had just lost? What kind of person was I to be so self-congratulatory about what I boasted to my husband was a “perfect miscarriage” (natural, not much bleeding, a quick cessation of pain)?

I’m not a heartless, emotionless person. The three weeks preceding the miscarriage were hell. I’d had a chemical pregnancy in May 2016 and two months later I was pregnant again. I was so anxious about it sticking; after wiping, every non-bloody piece of tissue was like a talisman as were the pregnancy tests I took every other day. I told my 2.5-year-old daughter that she could expect a sibling, took my vitamins, milked every twinge for sympathy and dismissal from childcare duties. It all went downhill at the reassurance scan I took at 6 weeks. There was just a wonky looking sac that measured behind by about 10 days. Progesterone pills were prescribed, another scan was scheduled. A week in limbo followed. Endless lurking on a website about misdiagnosed miscarriage, tears, hope, feelings of failure — I could barely function. The second scan revealed the presence of a foetus and that the sac had grown, but no heartbeat. Yet another follow-up scan was scheduled. Another week of being a shit parent, obsessive trawling of forums, tears, rage, grief. Misery all around.

 

Is dissolving into tears and sinking into a depression the only acceptable and “real” response to a miscarriage?

 

Then at the final scan, when I was about 9 weeks along, I was told there was no hope. The baby had probably died around 6.3 weeks. And that’s when the gloom started to lift. I was being released from limbo. There was nothing I could do, no amount of “research” on the internet could give me the hope I craved, I could get back to my life. I could stop grieving.
I told my husband we should go “celebrate” at a nearby restaurant, which we did. I tucked into cured meats with gusto and knocked back a few strong coffees. I felt quite cheerful. My spirits were further uplifted that very evening, when the bleeding started. No D&C, no misoprostol! This may have been a rubbish pregnancy but at least I could have a good miscarriage. My luck had not run out completely.

Once the fetus was out (I told my husband it felt like chunky vaginal diarrhoea while I was “evacuating” it, and he went grey in the face), I had no desire to look at it, to assign it a gender, to name it, to think of it as a potential person. I told myself all the clichés you’re not supposed to say to women going through miscarriage, and they helped me cope: it was just a ball of cells, everything happens for a reason, it was not meant to be, it was all for the best, at least it wasn’t ectopic/molar/late in the pregnancy, at least I had another child, I could try again. Every at least made me feel better because it reminded me that other people were worse off than me. I was still charmed dammit.

I did not take the day off at work and decided to go the doctor for the all-clear once the bleeding had subsided completely — I was not in much physical discomfort, I didn’t want manufactured sympathy or clinical prodding and the practice I go to plays Kenny G’s more plaintive saxophone renditions on loop, which I find unbearable.

Most people who knew what had happened made it a point to commend me on my “strength” but they were also a little appalled. I sometimes make jokes about it and that freaks people out too (I was quite proud of a little limerick I came up with: “My oven threw out my bun, so maybe now we are one and done.” Well, at least it rhymes). Some people think I’m faking it. Others say I’m not allowing myself to grieve. My husband actually told me to at least behave a little less clinical and cheerful about the whole thing because it makes me appear as if I am dissociated from reality.

But am I? Is dissolving into tears and sinking into a depression the only acceptable and “real” response to a miscarriage?

There’s almost a taboo around being able to “get over it.” It somehow makes you this insensitive, unfeeling person. Not woman enough.

There are so many articles about there being no one way to grieve or cope. I completely agree with that and feel great sympathy and empathy for everyone struggling in the aftermath of a miscarriage. I felt all of those emotions myself in the weeks before I physically lost the baby. But it should swing both ways. There’s almost a taboo around being able to “get over it.” It somehow makes you this insensitive, unfeeling person. Not woman enough. On occasion I found myself pretending to be sadder than I was because it was expected of me. That sucks. It’s not that I don’t regret what happened. Of course I do. I wanted that baby. But once I lost it, moving forward was the only way for me and I was grateful I was able to do it this time. It was a blessing to me that I could find that resilience, because that doesn’t always come easily to me. I definitely feel worried about ever being able to carry another pregnancy to term and sometimes I don’t want to even try again because the whole process causes so much anxiety.

But for now I am happy to have an empty womb.