A few weeks ago we had a training on personalities. We filled out a questionnaire and were assigned one of four colors that fit our personality. I knew where this was going. I know what type of person I am and I’m not happy about it. So, I deliberately answered the questions in a way that would make me someone different. It didn’t work. Despite all my efforts I was a blue. The blue personality is known for being a caregiver with an overdeveloped sense of compassion, empathy, and loyalty. Blue personalities desperately want to be liked and strive for your approval. The only other male in the class who was a blue was Bobby, an officer from across the hall. Consistent with blue, Bobby was liked by all and was great to have around. The teacher sensed my disdain and tried to brighten things up, saying blues are good leaders and very analytical. She later mentioned that blue personalities need to set strong boundaries because their drive to be liked can allow others to manipulate and take advantage of them. Blues have trouble sticking up for themselves and fighting back. No kidding, I’ve spent most of my life as a doormat and I hated it. Not exactly what I dreamed I’d be when I grew up. Other officers in the class got to be a cool color like gold, green, or orange. They were competitive workers who get things done right the first time no questions asked, they were champions. Some of them reminded me of Andrew Clark’s dad from the Breakfast Club (“I won’t tolerate any losers in this family! Win! Win!! Win!!!” – look it up). Like Andrew, some took advantage of weak people like me and tape our butt cheeks together (now you’re gonna look it up)… I was like an edgeless marshmallow; soft and overly sweet, waiting for someone to burn me on the campfire and then discard and step on me, and even then I cling on with my sticky insides begging to be liked from the bottom of a boot.
It was Friday afternoon and I was looking forward to going home and getting to the beach. It was summer and the days were longer so I still had a few hours. As a surprise to some, I am occasionally late in the mornings and to offset the guilt I stay a little later in the afternoon. After the extra 15 minutes I started for the door. Bobby met me at the exit.
“Hey I need your help,” he said with an unfortunate look in his eye. “I gotta pick up a female probationer and bring her to a motel. Please. I can’t go alone and there is no one else here.”
I wanted so badly to say no and walk out, the beach was calling. Instead, I put my vest on and headed out in the 90 degree summer heat, like a fluffy marshmallow going into the fire.
On the way Bobby told me about the female. She was living with her boyfriend who was in the military. She gave up her life and family and followed him around the world. Like in many cases, he got sick of her and began his abuse cycle. Not just physical abuse, he was beating her down emotionally as well. She had some mental health problems and he was tossing her meds, I guess he didn’t believe in them. She finally came to her senses and wanted out, but had nowhere to go. So, Bobby being the officer he was, found her a place.
It didn’t take long to see her issues. She was manic, buzzing around packing dozens of trash bags full of anything she could find. Bags with clothes, makeup and groceries, one was filled with a gallon of milk and cereal. Without hesitation Bobby started loading her bags into the trunk of the caged car. The house was tiny and Bobby is a big man. The ceiling fan was low enough to crack his forehead every so often but Bobby didn’t mind, he just kept loading the car. I did my best to not complain but the look on my face spoke for me. The probationer noticed and was constantly apologizing. Bobby was calm and patient telling her to take her time and make sure she had everything, followed by a thump from the fan on his head. We drove to the motel in a car bursting with bags and baskets.
As she checked in I looked around the motel. It was just what you’d think, all the doors facing out to the mostly drained pool that looked more like a green puddle with a broken patio chair dumped in the shallow end. The motel was four stories and to my dismay, no elevator. After a few minutes the probationer came out with her key.
Please don’t be on the fourth floor… please don’t be on the fourth floor.
“Room 436!”
We spent the next half an hour carrying bag after bag up four flights of stairs, burning my pushover marshmallow skin. I wondered why she needed so many things, what’s wrong with this girl?!? She was only staying for the weekend.
As we left Bobby told her he was working Sunday and he’d take her to a shelter. We weren’t in the car more than a minute before I started my bitching.
“You owe me for this one,” I said with more spite than I should have.
Bobby smiled, and with the purest sincerity he said, “Come on man you helped someone, doesn’t that feel good? This girl went through some shit, and you know how that is, can you imagine going through all that alone? She has no one, you had your friends and family to help you.”
And just like that being a blue marshmallow didn’t seem so bad. Yeah, we are soft and pudgy, and easy to take advantage of. But just like a marshmallow, we make things better. A campfire isn’t a campfire without marshmallows. Cocoa is great but with marshmallows its even better. How about sugar cereal? The best ones have marshmallows. Want some Rice Krispies? You don’t need milk or a bowl if you have marshmallows. The list goes on and on. Marshmallows don’t win, we don’t intimidate, and we don’t kick ass. But we make a bad situation better, just like we did with this girl. Sometimes that can change everything.
The Trouble With Omens 