The Infinite Starr

I met a man named Dale in the frozen food aisle.

Now before you get excited, Dale was not shopping for frozen vegetables. Dale was standing in front of six family-sized lasagnas, two pizzas, a gallon bucket of ice cream, and something called Bacon Explosion Bites.

I didn’t know Bacon Explosion Bites existed.

Part of me wished I still didn’t.

Dale looked at his cart with the kind of pride a king might have looking over his kingdom.

His kingdom just happened to be made entirely of sodium.

“Dale,” I said, “is there a vegetable in that cart?”

He thought about it.

“The pizza has tomatoes.”

I stared.

He stared.

Then he nodded like he had just won the debate.

That’s when it hit me.

I finally figured out why some people don’t mess with me.

I’m the problem.

Not because I’m mean.

Not because I’m difficult.

Not because I’m judgmental.

I’m the problem because I show up carrying ridiculous things like morals, values, accountability, boundaries, personal responsibility, and common sense.

Apparently that’s aggressive behavior now.

Dale looked at me.

“You know what’s wrong with you?”

“Please tell me.”

“You act like everything should make sense.”

I laughed.

“Well, shouldn’t it?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

He grabbed a second bucket of ice cream.

“Life is chaos.”

“Your life is chaos.”

“Exactly.”

He said it proudly.

Like he’d just earned a trophy.

The man had check engine lights on in three separate vehicles.

His mailbox was hanging sideways.

His smoke detector battery had been chirping for so long it had become part of the home’s ecosystem.

There was a fifty-fifty chance a raccoon legally owned part of his property.

Yet somehow he carried himself with complete confidence.

“Dale.”

“Yeah?”

“Your life is in shambles.”

“I know.”

“You don’t want to fix it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

“Seems like a lot of work.”

I blinked.

The honesty was almost refreshing.

Then something strange happened.

For the first time, I wasn’t annoyed.

I understood.

Because some people become so familiar with chaos that peace feels suspicious.

Some people become so accustomed to problems that solutions make them uncomfortable.

They don’t know who they are without a crisis.

The battlefield becomes home.

The warrior becomes addicted to the war.

Dale wasn’t fighting to win.

Dale was fighting because fighting was familiar.

Without a problem to wrestle, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

Without drama, there would be silence.

Without chaos, there would be responsibility.

Without disaster, there would be accountability.

And accountability is terrifying because then nobody else gets blamed.

I looked at him.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think every time I remind people of simple things, they think I’m attacking them.”

Dale nodded.

“Probably.”

“I’m not saying anything revolutionary.”

“Nope.”

“Pay your bills.”

“Wild concept.”

“Keep your word.”

“Insanity.”

“Don’t create problems you don’t need.”

“Now you’re speaking witchcraft.”

“Take responsibility for your choices.”

“Slow down there, Socrates.”

I laughed so hard I nearly knocked over a display of frozen waffles.

Because it was true.

Somewhere along the line common sense became controversial.

Personal accountability became oppression.

Boundaries became hostility.

Self-respect became arrogance.

And saying no became an act of war.

Dale grabbed another pizza.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you care so much?”

That stopped me.

Because he wasn’t asking sarcastically.

He genuinely wanted to know.

I thought about it.

Then I answered honestly.

“Because I know what life looks like when nobody cares.”

He nodded.

I continued.

“I’ve lived through enough chaos to know it isn’t freedom.”

“Fair.”

“I’ve seen enough train wrecks to stop calling them adventures.”

“Also fair.”

“I’ve spent enough years rebuilding things to recognize when somebody is actively setting their own house on fire.”

Dale smiled.

“You do kind of sound like a life coach.”

“I sound like an adult.”

“Same thing.”

Then he threw the last frozen pizza into his cart and started rolling away.

Halfway down the aisle he stopped.

Turned around.

Pointed at me.

“You know what your problem is?”

“What’s that?”

“You keep trying to hand people maps who are committed to getting lost.”

And with that he disappeared around the corner.

Leaving me standing there.

Speechless.

Because for once the barbarian had accidentally said something wise.

Not everybody wants peace.

Not everybody wants growth.

Not everybody wants solutions.

Some people want exactly what they have.

Even when it’s exhausting.

Even when it’s painful.

Even when it’s slowly sinking them.

And maybe the weirdest thing isn’t being the person with boundaries.

Maybe the weirdest thing is expecting everyone else to want them too.

So now when I meet people like Dale, I don’t argue.

I don’t lecture.

I don’t rescue.

I simply nod.

Because if the most comfortable place for a warrior is war, then some people aren’t looking for a way out.

They’re decorating the battlefield.

And honestly?

The raccoon probably owns the house by now anyway.