Self Acceptance or Self Improvement

Climbing the stairs to coach Gibson's office, I wondered what I was in trouble for.

I grew up in a time when, at age fifteen, you always assumed you were in trouble if you were called to someone's office. This is in sharp contrast to today's youth who assume they’re never in trouble; it's that entitled attitude they project.

Knocking on his door, I wait for his response.

"Come in," he barked.

Coach was sitting in his desk chair with his feet propped on his desk. Looking up, he noticed me.

"Oh, hey Johnson, come on in."

Coach Gibson was one of three different basketball coaches I had the three years I played high school basketball. You might assume that’s because I changed schools three times, but you'd be wrong. I was at the same school all three years. (Coaching never has been an easy profession.)

Knowing anything I say can and will be used against me, I kept quiet, waiting to see which way the wind was going to blow.

Folding his hands, coach's face took on a somber expression. "Listen Johnson," he began, "we've got to put some meat on your bones."

I flipped my hair out of my eyes and said, "Huh?"

"Your weight son, your weight. You're six feet two inches tall, right?"

Stretching to my full height, I replied, "Yes sir."

"And how much do you weigh?"

My shoulders sagged a bit. To say I was slim in high school is to put a kind spin on the truth. I was the butt end of all the skinny jokes. The kid that was so skinny that when he turned sideways and stuck out his tongue, he looked like a zipper was me. Yes, I could stand underneath a clothesline during a rainstorm and stay dry.

"145 pounds, coach," I lied.

His raised eyebrow told me he knew better.

Looking at the floor, I mumbled, "140."

"Exactly," coach concurred. "And we're going to do something about it."

I looked up, intrigued by his optimistic tone.

"I want you to drink two milkshakes with raw eggs in them every night before you go to bed," he said emphatically.

Either my lack of an enthusiastic response, or my dumbfounded look, or both, prompted an explanation.

"I want your parents to get a blender and make the milkshakes. You know — ice cream, sugar, milk, and two raw eggs in each. Drink them every night before you go to bed. I want you to try it for six weeks. That'll put some pounds on you."

Lest you suspect Coach Gibson had a more sinister motive for dealing with the lack of talent on his team, I think it’s only fair to point out when I was growing up we were clueless to the dangers of salmonella in raw eggs. Not that that would have mattered, because I was raised on the maxim, "Rub a little dirt on it. It'll be alright." This amazing recipe was the cure for a bloody nose, a lacerated chin, or a sprained ankle.

Now that the mission was clear to me, I answered, "Yes sir, coach."

Like a dutiful soldier, I marched home and reported the General's orders to my Quartermaster.

Mom said, "We'll talk about it."

I realized her reply was about counting pennies to determine if buying a blender, ice cream and extra eggs and milk could be worked into the family budget. Living on the salary of a minister was not easy back in those days.

The next morning, I was told that a blender would be bought and the "milk shake mission" would begin that night.

Two milkshakes every night sounded like every teenager's dream. I couldn't believe how lucky I was.

I don't believe I had ever heard the phrase, "be careful what you ask for" when I was a teenager, but I quickly learned its meaning.

When does a milkshake taste like medicine? When you have to drink two a night for six weeks.

I never thought I would gag on a milkshake.

But retreat was not an option, especially since my parents had made a significant financial investment in the campaign.

At the end: I climbed on the scales feeling swollen and bulked up.

The scales mocked me by reading "140 pounds."

It was true. I didn’t gain an ounce. The mission was an utter failure.

My friends who were aware of what I was trying to accomplish were both amazed and empathetic. But no one decided they would "unfriend" me (to use the Facebook vernacular of today). Actually, nothing changed in my world as a result of my failing to gain weight.

It was at that point that I made an important shift in my view of self. I decided God made me the way I was even if I was thin. It was other people who seemed to be more obsessed about it than I was. So I quit worrying about it.

All of us have things about ourselves we’re not happy about. Some of those things are cosmetic in nature (weight, kinky/smooth/straight hair, height, etc.). Other things are performance related (as an athlete, grades, job position, etc.).

When you find yourself feeling unhappy about some aspect of yourself and your life, let me recommend two approaches.

The first is self improvement. Throw yourself into becoming better at whatever it is you want to become. Do research. Make a plan. Practice. Be diligent. Don't give up too soon. There’s much about ourselves that we can improve on. One of the awesome things about us human beings is we can continue to evolve, even up to the time of our death.

The second approach is also very important — self acceptance. There may be some things you can never achieve. I hate to tell you that because I see the sadness and defeat in your eyes. But my commentary isn't meant to create hopelessness. Rather, I'm talking about being more accepting of who you are, exactly the way you are.

Relax and embrace the uniqueness of who you are.

Breathe deeply and take pleasure in the things you do well.

Our world needs people just like you.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume 1: I Didn’t Know Donkeys Could Laugh.