Not keeping score
When I would whine, “That’s not fair!”, my uncle would say, “Fairs are for tourists, kid.” (Image credit: Yet another photo by John Margolies from the Library of Congress)
It seems like it would make sense for things to be fair and equal.
You and your three collaborators on that presentation at work (or that seventh grade social studies project).
You and your sibling. You and your partner. You and your fellow senator.
Even though it seems like it would make sense for things to be fair and equal, however, keeping things equal is tricky. And keeping things equal doesn't necessarily mean that things are fair. What if I enjoy a particular task and my colleague hates it? What if I have a disability that makes a particular activity much more difficult? What if nobody actually cares if things are equal in a given situation? It's worth questioning the assumptions we make about what people want and need.
As someone who grew up with lots of siblings, keeping score used to be a natural thing in my life. However, as I've grown, I've discovered that it's optional. I don't actually need to keep score in order to be happy. Many of the most frustrating situations of my life could have been avoided if I had let go of the need for things to be fair—or let go of trying to please someone else who insisted on keeping score.
It seems that few relationships are truly equal, but when they are allowed to, they fall into an equilibrium. Even when contributions are lopsided, the connection can be perfectly satisfying. I don't expect children to ask about my thoughts and feelings, and my mentors don't expect me to compensate them for their advice. With good friends, I don't keep track of who texts first or calls or makes invitations; it all comes out okay, even when it's not even. Everyone gets out of the relationship what they want.
Close scrutiny, on the other hand, leads to discontent and unhappiness. If I've calculated exactly how long I've gone without a reply to an email I wrote to a particular person, I've wasted a lot of time and energy. I can certainly to take their neglect personally, but since I can't control another person's actions, I might as well not do that.
Keeping score in this way is exhausting. It places you at the center of the world, where you probably don't belong, and sets you up to be disappointed, at some point or another, by every single person you encounter.
This “zero-sum game” lens puts a lot of pressure on us, too. It gives every decision an additional weight. Our choice carries the responsibility of having to be unconditionally fair, which is pretty much an impossible standard for a person to meet.
I was recently reviewing a list of potential candidates for a job opening. I ranked these people in order from best to worst. I looked for criteria that would rule them out.
After a few minutes, I got that slightly sick to my stomach, hungover feeling that let me know I was on the wrong track. What was going on?
The problem was that I was judging these candidates—these human beings—as though I could make an objective, absolute assessment about their value. That always feels awful. You feel like you're playing God.
I reminded myself that my role was to ascertain each candidate's suitability for the job being offered. It wasn't for me to measure them by any other standard. If they weren't a great candidate for this position, they could be great for another one. I wasn't meant to judge their worth as people.
What's more, I couldn't possibly see the future. Any hiring recommendation I could make would be based on extremely limited knowledge—little more than a guess. How do I know how things are supposed to go?
It was strangely soothing to acknowledge my own ignorance and smallness. It returned the task of hiring to the realm of my own choices, as opposed to deciding the fates of others.
There are countless injustices in life. There are tons of missed opportunities and things that could have gone better if only someone else had done what they were supposed to do. This $20 delivery fee, that snub, the ball that got dropped (right on your foot).
In fact, virtually nothing is fair. I was born in the United States with English as a first language—the degree of privilege I had from my very first breath is unfathomable. My capacity is what it is, and I do myself and others a disservice when I hold back in the name of keeping things “the same.” They were never the same to begin with.
If I wait to ensure that what I receive matches what I give, things move too slowly. The experience of being alive is much more fun and interesting if I give what I can, freely, without worrying about what I will receive in return and without comparing it to what others are giving.
Carrying out a task can be its own reward; the joy of giving can outweigh the thrill of receiving. Reciprocity is not always necessary or relevant. The choice to ignore score-keeping is always there. It brings a freedom much more powerful than balance.
