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I am a big fan of small acts of kindness – gestures that may appear insignificant but potentially alter a stranger’s day.

One of my favorites is holding doors open for people. I live for the moment when a stranger’s eyes light up at an act that takes so little effort. I like to think the light I see in their eyes will, at the very least, carry them through whatever they might be going through. They may be more patient with their children or significant other or find their own small gesture that allows them to pass the light to someone else.

Because I have chosen door-holding as one of my favorite hobbies, I often find myself separated from my wife, Jenni, when we enter restaurants when I am out with her. 

I do my best to beat my wife to the door so that I can hold it for her. This gesture rarely brings a light to her eyes or even a ‘thank you,’ for that matter. Sometimes, I worry Jenni walks into doors when she is alone because she assumes all doors will open for her. 

Once, I opened her car door for her, thinking it would be an unexpected romantic gesture sure to score me big points. Jenni stopped short of the door and glared at me when she said, “Don’t do that.” 

“I thought women find it romantic?”

“Well, I don’t.”

“K,” I said, retreating to the other side of the car.

My point is, if she’s out there walking into doors when I’m not around, she deserves it. 

When we get separated entering a restaurant or bar, it typically leads to an interaction inside the building with the strangers I have already held the door for as they want to aid me in reuniting with the person I arrived with. 

As with so many things in life, these interactions have a pattern. I hold the door for my wife to see another person or people following her to the door; I continue to hold the door for them. They act as though they can’t believe the sacrifice I have made for them. When we are safely inside, they will say some variation of, “I suppose you want to be with her,” as they make room for me to rejoin my wife. 

We are never as unique as we think we are, are we?

Whether they speak or not, there is always a look of realization that I am not with the person I arrived with. 

Historically, this would be my cue to make a joke at my own expense (my favorite kind). I agree it is hard to believe a knockout like my wife is in public with me. And historically, I would get a laugh from strangers and an eye-roll from my wife.

Jenni and I recently went out on a date, just the two of us. This is a rare occurrence with a seven-year-old and five-year-old at home.

As I held the door for her to enter the cocktail bar, two women were approaching behind her. They thanked me profusely as they hurried inside to escape the below-zero temperature outside. I followed them in as my wife asked the hostess for a table for two. The women for whom I held the door were momentarily distracted as they took in the live music from the piano man right inside the main entrance. 

They both looked at me when the hostess said, “Please, follow me,” to Jenni. 

“Ope, you probably want to go with her,” one of them said as they split apart, allowing me to pass between them.

If you’re not from the Midwest, “Ope” is a colloquial term used to merge “oops” and an apology. If you need help remembering this, an excellent mnemonic device is Oops, Please Excuse me. 

“I know, I know, it’s hard to believe she’s with me,” I said with a smile. 

There wasn’t a laugh, smile, or even the patronizing sound of air being forcibly exhaled through the nose. Instead, I was met with two looks of confusion bordering on contempt. 

I followed my wife and hostess to our table, trying to sort out what had gone wrong on the short journey. 

Did I not say what I thought I said? Did I misunderstand what they said to me?

“You can’t get away with that anymore,” Jenni said, reading my mind as we sat at our table in the dimly lit bar. 

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely curious about what she picked up on that I didn’t.

“Your joke. It doesn’t work anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because you sound like a dick.” 

“Thank you. How so?”

“You can’t say that anymore,” Jenni began, with the patience of a mathematical savant being forced to explain arithmetic, “because it doesn’t work when you look the way you do now.”

“The way I look now?” I asked, attempting to seem genuinely confused so she would continue to turn the explanation into a compliment.

“Look at you in that sweater with the jacket and man-bun looking all handsome. When you look like you do now, those jokes don’t work because it sounds like you’re suggesting I’m the lucky one for being with you.”

“So, they think I’m a douchebag?”

“Probably.” 

At that moment, I felt my reality tilt slightly. It was like noticing a small detail in a painting that has hung on your wall for years that you can’t unsee but changes the way you view forever.

My entire personality is based on a version of myself that no longer exists. I have spent my life building a sense of humor based on making fun of how I appear to the outside world, or at least how I believe I appear. 

When I look in the mirror, I still see this guy: 

I took this exquisite photo on May 19, 2021, about a month after I started my journey to lose weight and look the way I do now. I didn’t have the guts to take one on the first day of my journey, so believe it or not, this is me after losing twenty-six pounds. 

After looking at it that morning, I immediately saved it into my iPhone’s password-protected, hidden album. An album I assumed was for attractive people to safely store the nudes they are sent from other attractive people.

I swore to myself no one would ever see it.

I had hallucinations of what the reactions would look like on other people’s faces, ranging from outright laughter to complete disgust. I considered deleting it because I didn’t want someone to find it if I ended up dying in a car accident that day. 

Clearly, there was no fatal car crash that day. Instead, I looked at that picture at least a dozen times during the day with a continuous loop of the most hateful, nasty criticisms running through my head. 

I considered reverting to the lifestyle that led to that… physique. I was riding high when I grabbed my phone to snap the photo. The scale showed 239.2, the first time I had been in the two-thirties since eight years prior. I felt attractive, proud, and like I was making progress. One look at the picture left me devastated. 

I hated the guy in the picture. I despised him and every shitty lifestyle decision he had made since October 8, 1984. I wanted to hide. I wanted to be cast away and left alone to live my remaining days in the misery I deserved. 

In the past few months, I have discovered that the guy in that picture is not someone to hate. 

I now see a guy desperate to feel good about his appearance, even just once. He wants to put on a shirt without closing his eyes, terrified to see and be disgusted by how the shirt fits his body when he looks in the mirror. He wants to eat a meal in front of someone else without trying to calculate exactly how much he can consume before people start to think to themselves; no wonder he is so big. 

Now, that picture is on the Internet. 

Strangers worldwide can stumble across it; their reactions will run the entire spectrum of possible responses. 

I’m okay with that. Not because I had a glow-up but because I now love the guy in that picture. He worked his ass off, literally. 

He believes that he is on the path to a better existence. 

His only error is assuming that losing weight is where the work stops. God, how I wish he was right about that one.

It turns out reinventing ourselves is a lot of work, and I am still a work in progress. 

I may not know everything about who my authentic self is, but I do know a few things:

If you see me jammin’ in my car on a Tuesday morning, singing at the top of my lungs, know that I am trying to turn that Tuesday morning into a Friday morning vibe with the likes of Taylor Swift, Sia, or Ariana Grande. 

I like the idea that strangers might think I’m an attractive douchebag, as Jenni suggested. Still, I will do everything in my power to let my kindness be why people are drawn to me. 

I will never stop making fun of myself. I am far too easy of a target.

I have found my place in this universe where I previously thought there might not be one for me. I have discovered what life can look and feel like when you are happy, and I will not give it up for anything. 

I want to spread that feeling. I want to provide a break, whether through my writing, podcasting, or ridiculous videos, for anyone who needs a Friday morning vibe.

Like so many others, I have been conditioned to believe life must be a slow, miserable grind five days a week to earn two days of happiness. If you feel duped the same way I do, I would love for you to join me in staring that notion directly in the eye while enthusiastically encouraging it to get fucked.

While it doesn’t always feel like it, we are in control of how our lives play out. If there is something in your life, whether it be big or small, that you don’t like, change it. Turns out you are allowed to do that.

It won’t be easy, but the things in life worth doing rarely are.

Well, aside from holding doors.

Cheers.