“That’s not fair!”
Walk by any playground and you are likely to hear this proclamation bandied about quite a bit. Someone got the last swing or cut to the head of the line at the slide. Keep walking and you’ll find sibling squabbles over a preferred color of fruit snack and a toddler melting down as his parents wearily deposit him in his car seat. All this energy in the quest of fairness.
When my brother and I were little, fairness was very important to us too. And when I say “fairness”, I don’t mean we wandered through our neighborhood rectifying injustices. I mean, everything we did included a measure to make sure we each got our fair share. This probably gave us an edge in math, particularly geometry because we could eyeball 50% pretty well.
Not an Almond Mom
In those days, my mom was concerned about our sugar and caffeine intake. Ahead of her time you might say. We lived in the country, so a trip into town was pretty darn exciting. Even more so when the day’s itinerary included a stop by Fay’s Drugstore. If we were pretty certain of our good behavior and Mom’s mood, we would beg for a candy bar. And usually, mom would buy us one. Not one for each of us. One candy bar to share.
Now, precise measurements are difficult in the back seat of a Plymouth Road Runner bouncing along a country road. So as much as we wanted that candy immediately upon purchase, our desire for fairness outweighed our desire for candy.
As soon as we arrived home, one of us would rush to the kitchen table to unwrap the candy and set up a makeshift confectionary surgical suite. The other would fetch a ruler or measuring tape from our dad’s stash in the garage. We didn’t bother scrubbing in. Trust levels were very low and time was of the essence.
The Speed of Trust
Speaking of trust levels, even the use of keen young eyes and measuring tools didn’t convince us of the fairness of the process. As a check and balance, one of us would cut the bar in two and the other would choose. We would switch roles each time. There would be the inevitable argument about who was the cutter and who was the chooser this time. In those instances, our mom would threaten to intervene and eat it herself if we didn’t get on with it.
On to the procedure. Both cutter and chooser leaned over the bar, faces as close as possible, leaving just enough space for the task ahead. No detail would escape notice. The cutter would measure to the best of their ability, preparing to make their incision with all the precision of a preschool orthopedic surgeon. With great care, they would place the knife perpendicular to the bar and begin slowly slicing through each layer. Chocolate, caramel, nougat, more chocolate.
Bisection complete, the cutter would separate the two sections for inspection. When both cutter and chooser had finished their visual appraisals, it was time for the chooser to take center stage and make their Solomonic decision. The chooser would move in closer, carefully observing each half from all angles. When they were satisfied with the choice, they would grab it and the cutter would be left with the remaining half.
The Aftermath
Now, if you don’t have kids, you might think this is a completely logical way to handle this situation and that it sounds like a very healthy, democratic way for two children to govern themselves. You may also think that this redistribution of wealth would lead to the satisfaction of all parties involved.
And you would be wrong.
The chooser almost invariably and immediately had chooser’s remorse. Now that the piece was in their hand, they noticed a slight angling along the incision line they hadn’t noticed before. The cutter would deny any wrongdoing or sneaky tactics. Then the cutter would claim they had the smaller piece and the chooser would state the same in a counterclaim.
If the pieces were somehow proven beyond a reasonable doubt to be the same size, then the fight would shift to the level of quality. And quality is very subjective. Depending on if you prefer a greater ratio of chocolate or caramel or nougat, you could score or be shafted by the artful eye and intimate personal knowledge of the chooser.
By the time we actually ate our (so called) half candy bar, the drugstore desire and car ride anticipation had worn off. There was no real sense of victory and it wasn’t very sweet.
Debriefing
Right now, you may be laughing or shaking your head, just thinking about this ridiculousness of the Great Candy Bar Skirmish of 1974. And you might also see yourself as one of the participants.
Are you the cutter? You work so hard and all eyes are on you, just waiting for you to make a mistake. Hesitant, always expecting you will be taken advantage of in some way.
Or maybe you’re the chooser. Feeling pressured to make decisions, but stuck in analysis paralysis. Filled with regret. Always believing you don’t make good choices.
You might relate to the mom. You may be a parent or a boss or a leader who is weighed down with responsibility and striving to do your best for all involved. But those around you are constantly bickering over the smallest things, attempting to sabotage your efforts.
You might even feel like the candy bar. You know your worth. But somehow you find yourself in situations where you are scrutinized, pulled apart and underappreciated.
In All Fairness
Wherever you find yourself in life, I’d like to offer this parting thought from the Stoic philosopher Epictetus.
“Things don’t upset us. Our judgment about them does. Events are not fair or unfair. They just are.”
Betsy is a certified life coach and blogger who helps midlife women find satisfaction where they are now and inspiration to go after their big goals.
To learn more about working with Betsy, click here.