“No” is a Complete Sentence
I am, by definition, not a blogger. I have been told, in past, that I do have a certain way with words and an amusing way of looking at things; but I have never thought anyone would care what I have to say about self help, relationships, life, or tips for washing the car. So when my gal pal Natalie, asked me to write a guest spot, I racked my mind trying to think of a topic.
In my mind, it needed to be over the top, helpful, amusing, and at a minimum not make people want to go stand in the middle of the freeway during rush hour. With all that being said, I settled on…
Wait for it…
Editor’s note: sorry to spoil the surprise, but the post needed a title, so…
“No” is a complete sentence.
We are in general, overwrought humans. We are constantly in contact, incredibly busy, and I think most people want to make everyone around them happy.
Unless you are a sociopath.
In that case, you are probably off being rude to servers, torturing your ex, and wreaking havoc on society.
Pro Tip: don’t be a sociopath.
For the rest of us, when we are asked for a favor, to go out of our way, or to chair the fundraiser for Dogs with Dementia, we usually say yes. Despite the incredible amount of OTHER things we have agreed to, we agree, then bitch about it to friends and loved ones while we set about finding a venue for 100 dogs who won’t be able to hold their bladders.
Years ago, in the midst of my most agreeable years, I agreed to host a charity event in my newly-decorated, all white apartment. It was the mid 2000s, and all white was a thing. Or so the overly priced decorator I paid told me. The event date was set, the flowers were ordered, wine was stocked, and the cheeseboard was…boarding. People began to arrive, and what I quickly realized was that — when holding a fundraiser — you can’t exactly tell people to go away when too many show up. By 7:30, my large apartment was bursting at the seams with people, all laughing, clinking glasses and congratulating each other on how nice it was to be such a giving, charitable person.
Oh, and telling me how much they loved my white suede sofa.
It was a bold choice — to hold an event, serve red wine and have white furniture, especially in a fabric like suede. Agreeably, it was a foolish furniture choice to begin with, but anything for Architectural Digest. They never asked to shoot my home, which horrified me in general, but I digress.
Roughly halfway through the evening, I heard two things:
1. One of my newly purchased, extremely dramatic pieces of stemware shatter into a million pieces
2. A woman shriek, “Oh, shit!”
I was halfway across the apartment, next to a melting ice sculpture, discussing an insanely mundane topic with a woman who chaired the event in years prior. Time seemed to warp to a halt, and it was one of those Matrix moments when I could see dust particles. Through the dust and laughing guests, my eyes zeroed in on my arch nemesis: a very blonde woman with too much Botox, standing over my pristine white sofa, now complete with a splatter paint effect of vintage Cabernet.
In these moments, things run through your mind.
Perhaps my eyes have created this horror scene before me, and I am actually imagining this…
Did I pay my car insurance?
and
Where is that pair of shoes I bought last week?
I did a quick mental inventory of my shoe closet, found the shoes on the second shelf to the left, and then calmly sat my wine glass on the table next to the molting ice sculpture, excused myself from Cathy, and made a beeline for my sofa.
There was a crowd now, gathered to stare at the carnage that once was my white sofa. The overly botoxed woman, whose name was Hillary, stood stark still, looking at the floor, giving the impression that the glass had somehow leapt to its ultimate demise. As I surveyed the damage, I looked at Hillary, and said, “What on earth?” Her return comment? “Do you have any club soda?”
While I understand the magic that club soda can perform in certain settings, this particular set of circumstances seemed a bit overwhelming for bubbly water.
I am certain that I had a look of abject horror on my face as the next thirty seconds crept by, but I was unable to form words.
The ensuing events, I am less than proud of. My brain exited stage left and took manners and rationality with it. I said, “get out.”
I must have whispered it because no one moved. I said “get out” again, and a man laughed. In his mind, I am sure he thought I was joking, but I was in fact not. I was mentally calculating the cost of cleaning and/or recovering said sofa, and the only words that would come were, “get out.”
Over and over again, I kept repeating it and began to walk around the apartment telling all manner of people — some friends, some not — that they had to get out of my apartment or I was going to call the police. Banshee is the probable volume at which I was speaking.
There are moments in life, in which you leave your body and like a zombie, wander about with no idea what is happening.
At first, people thought I was joking, then word started to spread that a lunatic was on the loose and wine glasses began to settle ever so gently on counters and tables. There was a flurry of coats, designer bags, and people disappearing around me as I stared at my sofa.
In the end I was left with an empty apartment, dozens of flowers, lipstick stained stemware, and cocktail napkins with tiny bits of cheese still stuck on decorative toothpicks.
I stared at the sofa. Attacked. Besmirched. Sullied.
Hillary was gone, only leaving behind a horrible mess to clean up and the thought that I should cancel my next botox appointment.
The sofa, not shockingly, was ruined. My only option was to live with what some would call a modern piece of art as a sofa, or throw it in the dumpster. Turns out, it is far more difficult to get rid of a stained sofa than one would imagine.
It took me a week to arrange for it to be removed from the apartment and another six months to receive a replacement, this time in gray tweed fabric. Movers came to the house and said, “Man, this party must have been a success!” It was, in fact, not. The fundraiser committee blackballed me from participating in any further activity. The event raised a total of $500 and cost me much more.
It was at this moment that I realized saying the word “No” requires no explanation.
Friend needs you to take them to the airport at 3:15AM for their flight to Europe?
No.
Someone wants to borrow your new chelsea boots because they would work perfect?
No.
Your brother would like you to color his wife’s hair for free?
No.
People are confused by this because not many people understand “no” without explanation.
I’m sleeping.
Those are Prada.
That’s the way I earn my money, and I don’t remember you giving me anything for free.
What I have found is that while it can be an awkward encounter, saying “no” is one of the most freeing experiences of your life. There is no feeling of dread, no planning, no ice sculpture, no ruined sofa.
After that event, I made two new life rules:
1. Never serve anything but clear beverages and colorless food at a party.
2. When you are asked to do something you REALLY don’t want to do, say “no.” It’s totally acceptable.
There have been moments of weakness, and it’s not been an easy journey nor without exception. I have given the early AM rides to the airport, the Prada boots have been borrowed and returned without fault, and I have done free hair in my career. But for the most part, the image of Hillary’s expressionless face staring at my wine-stained sofa as though it stained itself, leads me back to my truth, which is:
give only when you want and only when you can give 100% of yourself.
Oh, and never, I repeat — never — buy white furniture.
Britt Carter
Colorist, Lover of Loafers, Australian Shepherd Collector