Wise men and women have warned against it for centuries. Yet most of us at one time or another are guilty of trying to take the speck out of another's eye while ignoring the plank in our own.
Not long ago I attended a formal banquet where the guest speaker was a trim, fit man. A dynamic speaker, he held the room of middle-aged women spellbound from appetizers through entrees. But as smartly uniformed waiters moved amongst the tables offering trays loaded with luscious desserts something happened. The speaker changed course and suddenly went off into a shocking rant about the girth of the attendees.
Yep. He called the audience of carefully primped and polished middle-aged ladies FAT.
Dessert forks froze just short of rouged lips. Brows knit. Cheeks reddened. The click of forks to plates and the clink of cups to saucers ceased abruptly. And in that sudden silence you could almost hear the roar of female brains.
Me? Is he referring to me? Oh, what made me think wearing this torturous girdle would matter? But my husband assured me this color was slimming - or at least he grunted in what I thought was a positive manner when I asked. Oh why have I let myself go like...?
Hey! Wait a minute. Wait just a darn tootin' minute! Who does he think he is? We paid him to be here. We didn't pay him to insult us. He's throwing stones? Sure, his waist is trim, but he's gray and wrinkled and his shirt and tie don't match. Isn't he on his fifth marriage? Isn't he the one who practically gets tennis elbow from lifting so many cocktails? Who the heck does he think he...
The mistress of ceremonies, who'd handed the guest speaker the mic with an adoring smile at the beginning of the meal, plucked that same mic from his hand with tight lips and a terse, "thanks." He smiled and trotted off to retake his seat oblivious to the distress he'd caused, while she stumbled through a feather-smoothing speech of her own about member accomplishments and upcoming events. Cups began to clink against saucers again. Though fewer forks clicked dessert plates.
I drove home thoughtful. He'd been out of line - speaking the truth like that - hurting people. But despite whatever planks he might have in his own eye, there was no denying he'd clearly seen the chubby specks in ours.
I mulled it over in my mind, coming to a decision as I pulled into my driveway. I could remember that banquet as The Night of the Hurtful Hypocrit, or I could allow it to become The Night of the Helpful Hypocrit.
So...
Darn It!...
fewer burgers, more salad.
Something that's helping me write today: a stationary bike and a wireless keyboard.
Not long ago I attended a formal banquet where the guest speaker was a trim, fit man. A dynamic speaker, he held the room of middle-aged women spellbound from appetizers through entrees. But as smartly uniformed waiters moved amongst the tables offering trays loaded with luscious desserts something happened. The speaker changed course and suddenly went off into a shocking rant about the girth of the attendees.
Yep. He called the audience of carefully primped and polished middle-aged ladies FAT.
Dessert forks froze just short of rouged lips. Brows knit. Cheeks reddened. The click of forks to plates and the clink of cups to saucers ceased abruptly. And in that sudden silence you could almost hear the roar of female brains.
Me? Is he referring to me? Oh, what made me think wearing this torturous girdle would matter? But my husband assured me this color was slimming - or at least he grunted in what I thought was a positive manner when I asked. Oh why have I let myself go like...?
Hey! Wait a minute. Wait just a darn tootin' minute! Who does he think he is? We paid him to be here. We didn't pay him to insult us. He's throwing stones? Sure, his waist is trim, but he's gray and wrinkled and his shirt and tie don't match. Isn't he on his fifth marriage? Isn't he the one who practically gets tennis elbow from lifting so many cocktails? Who the heck does he think he...
The mistress of ceremonies, who'd handed the guest speaker the mic with an adoring smile at the beginning of the meal, plucked that same mic from his hand with tight lips and a terse, "thanks." He smiled and trotted off to retake his seat oblivious to the distress he'd caused, while she stumbled through a feather-smoothing speech of her own about member accomplishments and upcoming events. Cups began to clink against saucers again. Though fewer forks clicked dessert plates.
I drove home thoughtful. He'd been out of line - speaking the truth like that - hurting people. But despite whatever planks he might have in his own eye, there was no denying he'd clearly seen the chubby specks in ours.
I mulled it over in my mind, coming to a decision as I pulled into my driveway. I could remember that banquet as The Night of the Hurtful Hypocrit, or I could allow it to become The Night of the Helpful Hypocrit.
So...
Darn It!...
fewer burgers, more salad.
Something that's helping me write today: a stationary bike and a wireless keyboard.
