I read another great post by Justine Musk today about the problem with nice girls. I’ve never been called nice. I’ve heard myself described as smart, funny, aggressive, driven but never nice. My mother is the epitome of nice. She is sweet and kind. She’ll talk to strangers in the elevator. People love my mom because she exudes nice. I don’t think I have that gene.
I’m more like my late dad. Not so nice. More about getting to the point, getting it done, saying what I think, and not so much about being considerate along the way. I’ve always said that if I had to choose I’d rather be respected than liked.
But I’m trying to add nice or at least kind to my modus operandi. I now take the time to thank the busboy and the flight attendant, to respond to all (OK, most) of my emails, Facebook messages and tweets because hey, if people took the time to write to me, I should at least reply. I’m working on striking up conversations with strangers just to be nice. And I must say that taking the extra minute to be kind is kind of nice.