"They'd do it for me"

I've been hard on the unwilling yes for nine chapters. This chapter is here to stop the argument going too far, because there's a bad version of this book that tells you to do only what you feel like. I don't believe that, and I doubt you do either.

Some things you don't want to do are things you should do. Your friend is moving out after a separation and needs a hand on Saturday. Your mother has a hospital appointment and doesn't like to go alone. A colleague who covered for you in March needs the same from you now. You don't feel like doing any of these. You'd still be ashamed to refuse, and you'd be right to be.

The slip of paper from chapter 1 handles these well. Imagine the request arriving in writing, with nobody watching and two boxes to tick. For your friend's move, you'd sigh and tick yes. That sigh matters. A willing yes isn't the same as an eager one. It's a yes you'd give with time to think and no face in front of you. You give it because you care about the person, or you owe them, or it's plainly right. The test doesn't ask whether you'd enjoy it. It asks whether you, thinking it over, would choose it.

So when you hear yourself say "they'd do it for me", take it seriously and check it. Sometimes it's true. There are people in your life with whom you have a long account of favours running in both directions, and with them, turning up is the whole point. Help them, and don't count too carefully.

But the feeling of owing is less choosy than it should be. It goes off for the neighbour who once took in a parcel. It goes off for the colleague who bought you a coffee in 2019, and for the acquaintance who asks in a warm enough voice. In the moment, all of these feel like "they'd do it for me". Often they wouldn't, or you've no idea whether they would. With some of them the favours have only ever run one way. Ask who usually does the asking, and you'll know which kind of relationship it is.

A few questions sort most cases, and none of them can be answered in four seconds, which is one more reason to get your answer out of the moment. Who is asking, and what are they to me? What does it cost me, with the date moved to tomorrow? What is it for? Would I be glad afterwards that I'd done it? Helping at your friend's move passes the last question even though the day itself is grim. The tombola, for you, didn't. For somebody else on your street it would have. There are people who love a tombola, and your no would have left the job open for one of them.

One more limit needs stating. This book is about refusing things you don't want. It isn't about refusing things that frighten you. If you're asked to a party where you'll know nobody, or asked to give a talk, the reluctance you feel may be nerves and not unwillingness. The slip of paper won't help there, because the you at the kitchen table is nervous too and would happily tick no. With requests of that kind there's another question to ask. If the fear were taken away, would I want this? If yes, then the no is protecting the fear, and fear grows when it's protected. That's a different habit from the one in this book, and what I say in these chapters shouldn't be used as cover for it.

None of this makes the sorting hard in practice. Most requests fall quickly into a pile. There's a small pile of things you'll do gladly. There's a larger pile of things you'll do with a sigh because they're right. And there's the pile this book is about, the things you'd refuse on paper and accept to a face. Only the third pile needs to change.