I think I was around seven.

That’s around when my mom’s office was just around the corner from a convenience store.  Every day, my dad would pick my brother and me up from school and drive us over to hang out there in the afternoon.  It was a way for my mom to feel close to us, I guess.

It sounds dismal, this idea of little kids hanging out in an office all afternoon, but if you put yourself in the shoes of a seven years old and remember how they feel about highlighters, blank paper and unlimited supplies of paper clips, you’ll understand that it wasn’t so bad.  Also, it was across the street from the beach.

One of my favorite things, though, about going to mom’s office was that her nurses and secretaries would send me on store runs for soda or chips.  Again, as an adult this would be annoying, but as a seven year old it made me feel like… a grown up.  And for me, that was the entire purpose of childhood… to feel grown up.

One day, on one of those soda runs, I walked into the mini-mart and was surprised to see more people than I had ever seen in there.  Twenty, maybe thirty?

One Diet Coke ah-ah-ah, two Sprites ah-ah-ah… and a pack of gum for myself ah-ah-ah... I was repeating the list in my head to the tune of the Sesame Street Count both in an effort to entertain myself and to avoid looking like a fool for coming back with two Sprites and one Diet Coke on accident.

When it was my turn, I gave the woman behind the register the petty cash money that had been entrusted to me to purchase said goods.  She put my stuff in a plastic bag and handed me change while she was giving the man behind me directions on how to get to the Interstate.  We were a long way from the Interstate, so she was plenty distracted.

Which is probably why, as I look back now, she handed me change for a twenty when she should have handed me change for a ten.

I didn’t realize this until I was pulling the money out of my pocket as I neared the front door of my mom’s office.

I had an extra ten dollars.

Remember, people, I was seven years old and it was 1982.  That’s like finding a million dollars in your laundry.

My mind started reeling.  First, it was filled with visions of all the things I could buy with ten bucks… clothes for my Barbies,  Garbage Pail Kid’s Collector Cards, TWO copies of MAD magazine, A Dukes of Hazzard action figure (oh, please, spare me the act, you know you wanted one)… or candy.  Lots and lots of candy that I could and would taunt my brother with until the end of time.

Ten dollars!!

But, then, I started thinking about how I’d have to go back to the store tomorrow, and that same lady would probably be there.  I thought about how she was always really nice to me when I went in there.  I thought about how keeping money that wasn’t mine was like stealing.

Furthermore, having watched my mom’s receptionist close out at the end of each business day, I knew that collected money was counted.  Is there was money missing, then it was kind of a big deal.  I thought of the nice lady behind the register trying to explain why ten dollars was missing to the person in charge.

So, I had to go back.  I went inside and I gave mom’s staff their sodas and slipped back outside without mentioning the extra ten bucks in the back of my pocket.  I’m not sure why I didn’t mention it.

Okay, I am sure.  It was because I wasn’t totally sure I was going to give the money back at that point.

The whole way there, I thought about how stupid I was being.  She’s the one who made a mistake when she counted the change.  Why should I have to suffer?  Besides, it’s not like she’ll know it was me that kept the money.  I thought up ways to justify keeping that ten bucks… until I found myself standing in front of the cash register.

The crowd was gone, the store was empty, and the cashier who had given me the wrong change was now accompanied by a man behind the counter.

“Hey, brown eyes,” She always called me that.. because, well, I have brown eyes.  “Weren’t you just in here?”

“Um, yeah,” I mumbled.  I reached back into my pocket and felt for the crumpled up fortune.  It was still there.  And there was still time, too.  I could act like I’d forgotten to buy a pack of gum…

“I, um, you gave me back too much money.”  I handed her the ten.

She took it from me in a way that felt very … slow.  And I’m pretty sure I remember that she never took her eyes away from mine.  “I did, did I?  You sure…”

“Yes.  You should have given me a five and two ones, but you gave me a ten, a five and two ones…”

“Well… you’re lucky,” the man behind the counter said to her “There’s no way I’d a come back and given you that ten dollars back.”

“No,” she rolled her eyes, “I suppose you wouldn’t have.”  She reached over the counter and grabbed three packs of Bubbalicious and handed them to me.  “That’s for you, honey.  Because good deeds should be rewarded.”

I was ecstatic.  Obviously.  Because if ten dollars is like a million to the seven year old brain, three free packs of Bubbalicious is like the Hope diamond.

“Thanks,” I said.

I didn’t know I was going to get a fortune for doing the right thing, but I had done it anyway.  It was rewarding moment for me.  Perhaps the most rewarding moment up until that point in my seven year old life.

I’m still that person.

I do the right thing even when nobody is looking, even if doing the “wrong” thing seems to have more immediate rewards.

I don’t do the right thing because I’m scared because let’s face it, I’m smart enough to figure out how not to get caught.

I’m also very thoughtful and conscientious about what I deem to be “right.”

I mention this above point in case one of my teachers from my senior year in high school is reading this and is wondering if I remember skipping 82 days that year and wouldn’t that be considered not doing the right thing.  No, it wouldn’t, and I stand by those absences because I remain firm in my belief that my attendance that year was pointless.

So.

Anyway.

What do I love about myself?

My commitment to do the “right” thing whether or not Bubbalicious is involved.  And, we all know it seldom is.

My first, second, third and fourth inclination here is to write that I hate nothing about myself.

At least, nothing comes to mind.

There must be something, though, right?  Something.

I conducted an imaginary poll this morning of the people that know me well and had imaginary conversations with them about what they hated about me in an effort to discern what I might hate about myself.

Step 1: Data Collection… Remember all of these conversations took place in my head and not in real life.  But I am eerily accurate in predicting the reactions of people to most situations.

Sample Conversation #1: Tariq, my husband

Tariq: No way.  I’m not going to play this game, I know how this story is going to end.

Me: Well, you’re not being very supportive, right now.

Tariq:  It’s not about being supportive.  Whatever my answer is… you’re going to be angry with me.

Me: No.  Seriously.  I won’t get mad.

Tariq: Okay, fine.  You have a very short temper, that’s pretty hard to deal with.

Me: Okay, yeah.  But, I’m working on that.

Tariq: Yeah, I know, but you still have one.

Me:  I.know.

Tariq: See.  You’re mad.

Me: No, I’m not.

Tariq: Yes, you are.

Me: OH SO NOW YOU’RE GOING TO TELL ME HOW I FEEL?  HOW COULD YOU JUST ASSUME TO KNOW BETTER ABOUT MY FEELINGS THAN ME?  I AM SO NOT ANGRY.

Tariq:  I don’t hate anything about you, Faiqa.  I think you’re perfect, honey.

Me:  What.ever.

Sample Conversation #2: With MBTD, My Brother The Doctor

Me: So.  What do you hate about me?

MBTD: What?

Me: I’m doing something for my blog.  I need to figure out what I hate about myself.

MBTD: Oh, I wrote a blog on your site yesterday, did you see it?

Me: You mean, a comment.  You wrote a comment.

MBTD: I don’t speak geek.  I typed some words in a box and clicked submit.  Why do you want to know what you hate about yourself?

Me:  Actually, I want to know what YOU hate about me.

MBTD: The post is about what other people hate about you?

Me: No.  It’s about what I hate about me.  I couldn’t figure out anything that I hated about myself, so I’m on a fact finding mission.

MBTD:  Oh.

::Silence::

Me: So?

MBTD: I don’t think this is a very good idea.

Me: It’s a terrific idea.  Come on.  I promise I won’t get mad.

MBTD: Okay… fine.  You can be pushy.

Me: Ha, yes, that’s true.

MBTD: You also brown nose our parents to the point of enabling their personal flaws.

Me: Guilty, your honor.

MBTD: And you can be bossy and controlling.

Me: Well, yeah.  ::Awkward silence:: But I’m working on that.  I think I’ve gotten a lot better about it, too.

MBTD: Working on something isn’t the same as not being something.

Me: ::Contempt ridden silence::

MBTD: See.  I don’t think this is a good idea.

Me: I TOLD YOU, THIS IS A.FANTASTIC.IDEA.  KEEP GOING.

MBTD:  Um.  My pager just went off… someone might be having a heart attack, I should probably go.

Me: ARE YOU BLOWING ME OFF IN AN EFFORT TO CONTROL THIS INTERACTION?  NOW WHO’S CONTROLLING?  HA!  YOU!! YOU ARE CONTROLLING AND PUSHY!!

MBTD: Seriously, Faiqa, I told you this was a bad idea.  Because I don’t hate anything about you.  You’re my sister and one of my best friends.  You’re great.

Me: What.ev.ER.

Sample Conversation #3: With N., My daughter.

Me: N.  Is there anything you don’t like about Mama?

N: Of course not, Mama, I love everything about you.

Me: There must be something.

N: Nope, I love you no matter what.

Me: Well, yes, I know, but, there must be something.

N: No, Mama, no matter what I love you.

Me: You’re so sweet.

N: I love you… even if you beat me.

Me: What?

::Please note that I do not even spank my children, nor do I ever plan on it::

N: Or if you tried to scratch me.

Me: What?!

N: Or if you pushed me and told me you hated me.

Me: W.H.A.T?!

N: I would love you no matter what.

Me: I’VE NEVER EVEN SPANKED YOU, N. WHERE WOULD YOU GET THE IDEA THAT I WOULD BEAT, SCRATCH AND PUSH YOU?!!!

N: Mama.  Mama.  Look at me.  Mama.  No.matter.what.

::long silence::

Me: Yeah, okay.  Me, too.

*This was an actual conversation that took place last week, except for the part where I asked her if there was anything she didn’t like about me.

Conclusions/Analysis

I can be a bit of a bully to the people I love.  Sometimes, I’m afraid that I bully them into loving me or liking me.  So when they do express that they love me, I feel like it isn’t genuine.  Like it’s not real.

I hate that I forget that they really do love me for who I am and not because they’re scared of me.

I also kind of hate the fact that I’ve been described on several occasions as someone  who can be “scary.”  I don’t know how to fix that and still be myself.  I hate that I’m even contemplating the idea that I need “fixing.”

I guess I hate that I can be “scary” for some people.

It’s not like I mean to be that way.