The Art of Being J

There are some people who I just can’t stay mad at. I’m sure you have at least one person in your life to which this applies. No matter how inconsiderate, selfish, or pig-headed they are, there’s something about them that makes it impossible for me to sustain any angry feelings toward them. I met my sweet, sweet friend, J, in college. Let me make this clear: J is neither inconsiderate, selfish nor pig-headed. I am convinced that if you were to meet J, in your generally cynical and suspicious nature, would think her natural disposition to be false, fake, somehow all an act because no one could maintain such a light-as-meringue, lemony-sweet attitude 24/7. I walk around, everyday, like a gunslinger with a permanently raised eyebrow, skepticism and incredulousness safely holstered at my sides. They’re cocked and ready to fire any time I get a whiff of someone trying to pawn something off on me.

I assure you, though, J is sincere. She will be the first to offer kind and encouraging words when you’re feeling down; she is ever-vigilant of a cloud’s silver lining; and, she is a firm believer in an ant’s ability to move a rubber tree plant. Why, I’d slug anyone in the eye before I let them disparage J in any way!

However…

Tardiness is the monkey straddled to J’s back. An hour, two hours, three hours…one never knows when J will arrive. You can’t really claim to know her if expect her to be on time. Don’t ask her to bring food for a potluck—unless it’s dessert! And don’t ask her to drive for a road trip, unless you pad your schedule at least two hours. Friends who’ve known her since high school say she’s always been this way. Yet, as maddening as it is to have a friend who is perpetually late, all of us have silently and collectively, accepted this trait. We look at each other, we look at our watches, we look at the food getting colder, we nod our heads side-to-side and turn up one corner of our mouths, and then we go about our business.

We accept and love you, J! And she knows this, of course. She’ll make a grand entrance, schlepping an overnight bag, a pillow, an air mattress and a rolling suitcase for an overnight trip. “So sorry! You wouldn't believe the traffic out there!” she’ll say breathlessly and toss out a giggle worthy of a 15-year-old. J must be a master of human behavior because how can she possibly—so consistently—push the tardy envelope without fear of being ostracized and given a collective cold shoulder? J is like a new puppy, eager to please but inadvertently knocking down lamps and vases; she’s like a 6-year-old who makes a mess in the kitchen trying to make you breakfast. I dare you to stay mad at her!

I’ve stopped trying to explain to J what they say about the pathology of people of who are perpetually late. The experts say they are egomaniacs; that they think the world will stop and wait for them; that they hold their needs above all others and are selfish. I can’t say these things to J because it simply isn’t true. When it comes to J, I have to believe there really was a lot of traffic.