Aristotle? Bible? “Ideal man”? Mit-what-zah? Sounds like a fancy way of saying “make your own bed” to me. But apparently, doing stuff for other people is supposed to be some grand declaration of inner beauty. Let’s be honest, though, favors are a minefield. A social tightrope where good intentions trip over awkward silences and unspoken expectations. Or as my Irish grandmother used to say: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Me? I’ve been asked to fetch everything from a stray sock in a still revolving tumble dryer to the last-minute request for a kidney from a distant cousin I met once at a baptism gone wrong. Favors Large? Favors Small? It’s all relative, isn’t it? Holding the door for a granny is a breeze, but explaining Bitcoin to your dad feels a lot like pushing a boulder uphill with a sprained ankle.

Spontaneous? Well, I wouldn’t call stopping to help a stranded motorist “spontaneous” exactly. It’s more like that primal fear of being stuck myself that starts kicking in. Besides, the hero worship from the grateful “stuckee” driver it usually comes with free coffee – post action bribery, basically.

Now for me begrudging favors is where the real theater starts. Like the time a friend asked me to be his “wingman” at a club. Me, the social chameleon who blends in with furniture. That night ended with me explaining existentialism to a drunk bouncer while my Casanova friend snuck off with a girl who could bench press me. You call that a favor? I call it a prolonged emotional mugging.

And me asking for favors? Don’t even get me started. I’d rather wrestle a badger for its comb than admit I need help (or directions). Unless, of course, the reward is free pizza. Then all bets are off. I would tap-dance on broken glass for a slice of pepperoni heaven.

But here’s the thing Aristotle and Bible guy: maybe, just maybe, doing things for others isn’t about some cosmic karma balance sheet. Maybe it’s about the fleeting dopamine rush of seeing someone smile. Maybe it’s about proving to myself that I am not a complete jerk. Or maybe it’s just about avoiding the awkwardness of saying no?

Who knows? The human psyche is a tangled knot of neuroses and half-eaten biscuits. All I know is, next time someone asks me for a favor, I’ll weigh the awkwardness against the potential pizza payoff. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, I’ll surprise myself and do it out of the sheer, inexplicable joy of being slightly less than a nitwit. But don’t hold your breath.

–30–

A Donkey On The Edge

Okay let’s talk short fuses. Not the kind that light your Marlboro cigarettes on the Fourth of July (although, hey, if you do you – then boo hoo for you.). I’m talking about the human variety, the folks who walk around with tempers simmering just below the surface, like a pot of chili perpetually threatening to boil over. You know the type. The ones we have to tiptoe around, carefully enunciating every syllable like they are defusing a bomb with a thesaurus.

Let’s be honest, short fuses can be, well, a pain in the arse. Like that coworker who explodes over stapler theft: “Seriously, Brenda, it’s a communal stapler, let it go”. Or the family member who turns Thanksgiving dinner into a WWE Smackdown because someone dared to suggest cranberry sauce is an abomination. They yell, they slam doors, they make faces that would curdle milk. It’s enough to make you want to invest in a lifetime supply of earplugs and tension tamer stress balls.

But here’s the thing: there’s more to the short-fuse story than meets the eye. Sure, they might light up like a birthday sparkler at the slightest breeze, but there’s often a reason for their pyrotechnics. Maybe they’re wired differently, their neurons firing like hyperactive hummingbird wings. Maybe they’re passionate beings, feeling everything tenfold, the good, the bad, and the ugly sweater your aunt insists on wearing every year. Maybe they’ve got inner demons they’re battling, invisible wounds that make every interaction a potential landmine.

Who are we to judge, right? We all come with our own baggage, our own quirks, our own ways of navigating this messy, glorious, infuriating thing called life. And for some folks, that navigation system involves a big, red “ANGER” button that gets accidentally pressed a little too often.

So, next time you encounter a short fuse, try taking a step back. Instead of running for the hills, try a little empathy. Maybe offer a sympathetic ear, a non-judgmental shoulder to cry on. Or what the hell – just pass the damn cranberry sauce and let the fireworks fly. You might be surprised at what you find beneath the smoke and fury.

Because here’s the other thing about short fuses: they often burn bright. They’re the ones who stand up for what they believe in, even when it’s scary. They’re the ones who fight for the underdog, the ones who laugh the loudest, the ones who love the fiercest. They’re the human equivalent of a Roman candle, spitting sparks and flames, but illuminating the night sky with their intensity.

So, yeah, short fuses can be a handful. But let’s not forget, they’re also the ones who keep things interesting, if worrisome. They’re the ones who remind us that life is meant to be lived passionately, even if it means occasionally setting the tablecloth on fire. And who knows, maybe a little bit of that short-fuse energy is exactly what we all need to spice up our own lives, though just a dash – not a full-on inferno mind you.

So, raise a glass (or a fire extinguisher, whichever you have handy) to the short fuses among us. They may make us nervous, they may make us laugh, they may make us want to hide under the table, but one thing’s for sure: they never let us forget that life is anything but boring. And honestly, in this beige, lukewarm world, that’s something to be grateful for, even if it comes with a side of singed eyebrows.