David McElroy

I’m not good at ending things that really need to end.

It’s one of the enduring mysteries of my life. I like to think I’m a bright guy, but when it comes to my own self-sabotage, I might as well be an idiot. I never can see the stop signs. Or if I see them, I ignore them — plowing right on toward a disaster of my own creation.

When you see a stop sign — whether you’re driving a car or trying to get to where you want to go in life — it tends to be well ahead of time. You see the bright red sign in the distance and you know it’s time to put on the brakes. It’s for your own good and for the good of those around you.

People who ignore stop signs can hurt themselves. Their recklessness can hurt others, too. I’ve never done this in a car, but I’ve done it with my life over and over. I’m doing it again lately. And even though I see this, I’m sabotaging myself by ignoring the stop signs. Again.

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You are an irrational person. Yes, you.

That’s not an insult. If you can read this, you’re a human being — and that makes you irrational. In fact, I believe — in all seriousness — that every human being is just a little bit insane. Some form of insanity is a universal “birth defect” among us.

One of the biggest mistakes we make in life is assuming we’re rational. What’s worse, we notice that other people seem irrational and stupid, but almost all of us believe we’re the exception. My way of looking at the world is right and rational. Your way is wrong and irrational. (You probably have evil motives, too.)

You are the hero of your own story. In your own mind, you believe you’re making rational and smart and sane decisions. You believe you have good motives, at least within the context of however you’ve justified your own actions.

I do exactly the same thing. And our mutual blindness about this whole charade leaves us with warped perceptions of the world around us — and of each other.

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For the last week or so, something has been telling me to check on my neighbor Ruth. Every night when I got home, I’d think about walking over to her house and knocking on the door. But I kept putting it off. It can always wait another day.

Ruth has lived near me several years. She’s in her mid 50s and lives alone. I originally got to know her because she has two young granddaughters who like to ask Lucy to stop and see them when they’re at Ruth’s house.

About six months ago, a man moved in with Ruth and I soon met him. He seemed nice enough. He was her ex-husband — and they were trying to see whether they could get back together again. As I talked to both of them over the coming weeks — sometimes individually and sometimes together — I knew it wasn’t going to work.

Ruth kicked him out about six weeks ago. She briefly told me that when I saw her on the street one day, but I didn’t have time to stop to chat about it then. But I’d been having a strange feeling lately that I needed to check on her.

I finally got home tonight about 8:30, but I didn’t even go inside. I left my things in the car and walked straight to Ruth’s house and knocked on the door.

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