Keep Smiling...

ST LOUIS, December 1991 –

A dozen co-workers and I rolled into a hotel ballroom gala with the false bravado of a crew trying to look like we belonged. I wore an ill-fitting suit and felt like a fish out of water, but my tribe emboldened me. We had no money for any silent auctions and didn't have much in common with the few hundred people in attendance, but we were determined to turn this into an adventure. What else could we do?

Midway through a year of volunteer service, we had convened for a retreat that happened to coincide with the organization's signature fundraising event. Our jobs were tough (essentially proxy-parents for teenage boys), and this "retreat" was an escape, an opportunity to blow off steam and share hopes and dreams and frustrations with the only people on the planet who fully understood what we were going through. At least it seemed that way.

That night, after a long day of meetings, we did what most penniless twenty-somethings would do when presented with such an opportunity: we parked ourselves at the open bar, made up stories about attendees, and practically knocked each other over when a server carried a tray of bacon-wrapped scallops within twenty feet.

We were fresh out of college, making a $200-a-month stipend. The gala attendees didn't look or act like us. They wore expensive suits and beautiful gowns. Their grey hair gave them a distinguished look, and they floated effortlessly through he ballroom as if charity events were their job. We pegged them as heirs of the Ralston Purina or Anheuser Busch families, the only companies we knew to be headquartered in St. Louis, and imagined they all summered in the Hamptons.

Halfway through the night, I found myself alone at the bar, wondering if they'd give me another two drinks even though I had a half-full beer in my hand. I took a long pull, hoping to dispose of my napkin-wrapped bottle, when an older woman tapped my shoulder.

"Can I ask what you're doing here?" she said.

I froze for a second, and then stammered out, "We were invited...I mean, we work for the organization. We're supposed to be here." In my mind, she was a hundred and calling me out for stuffing shrimp into my pockets and slamming free Budweisers. Had she donated the beer? In reality, she was probably the same age I am now (maybe younger) and was just making conversation.

"I'm sure you're supposed to be here," she said. "I just meant, you and your friends are having a lot of fun. I wondered if there was a story." She twirled the stirrer in her drink, and I noticed the slur in her speech.

"Oh," I smiled, relieved that she wasn't going to call for security. "We're all doing a year of volunteer service. I work outside of Cleveland. We get together a few times for training, and it just happened to be this week."

"How nice," she said, and I told her how much we had bonded over this shared experience. How much this time together meant to us.

She took it all in, smiling along with me, and sucking down the last of her see-through cocktail. "Can I give you some advice?" she asked.

"Sure," I said, wondering if she had dog-food money and trying my best not to match her slur.

"Life can be really hard," she said, her eyes narrowing and her face growing serious. "You have your high highs and you have your low lows. Do me a favor…"

I leaned in a bit.

"Keep smiling," she said.

I'm sure I smiled in response. It had felt like an odd thing to say, but I guessed she was admiring our youth, our whole lives in front of us. Maybe she admired our lack of obligation, the sense that we didn't have much but we also didn't have too many cares in the world.

And then she went on, spitting out the next four words, her face taking on more of a scowl that turned to joy as she finished.

"It confuses the bastards."

Thirty-three years later, I so appreciate this drunken woman and her hotel ballroom wisdom. I realize how many times I've faced a seemingly impossible situation, a difficult person, a major setback. It's easy to feel defeated. It's easy to react with anger or sadness or frustration.

That drunk woman in some St. Louis hotel gave me a coping strategy that has ensured I don't just persist, but I take some joy in the act of persisting.

Life can be tough. People don't always act with grace. They can make you feel defeated or demoralized. Don't give them that power.

Keep smiling. It confuses the bastards.