I’ve been thinking about something . . . lately.

I may have broken a code, solved a puzzle, or discovered the obvious with all this "thinking." Perhaps only for myself. It's an “Ah-Ha” moment. Not a full epiphany. Perhaps a half epiphany.

When we are denied something, anything, we tend to want it more. Actually, it can become a driving force that overtakes our ability to be reasonable.

And the consequences aren’t all that desirable or pretty.

At my old place of business, I was one in a group of five. A sixth person was added. Newby, consumed with wonderful ideas about how to fix all our problems, filled with clichés and opinions, came in thinking he was better than we all were. He made self-serving choices that didn’t support the mission of the organization. His contributions were intended to propel his existence into popularity. To become the most Popular . . . not really the best attitude for Higher Education.

He tried hard, really hard, to be a part of the club. A goof-footed effort of clumsy left-handed compliments with a complete lack of social graces and the arrogance of a Royal. He was without any knowledge that his attempts to "fit in," to prove that he could be a "part of the club" were the very actions that repelled us. We didn’t want him in our club. He wasn’t, for lack of a better descriptor, mature enough. The more he hungered to join us, the more his sophomoric attempts to prove his worth to us became painful. He couldn’t join the club because of his own blind ambitions. We didn’t make him an outcast; he did that all on his own.

Time passed, and unlike wine and cheese, the Newby didn’t improve. Our Newby sought out other clubs and other means of boosting his self-importance. Soon, he had the tools to turn the tables.

“There’s a reason why the word junk is part of the word adjunct. You’re not faculty. You’re add-ons. Junk. Ad-junct.” Sophomoric? Soph-moronic? Not really a mature utterance. Not even clever.

All too soon we weren’t worthy of teaching because we weren’t in his Club. Now, with the tables turned, we could be denied entry, privilege and even transparency. We were denied the very advantages we had been granted through our hard work. Soon, we were even silenced.

If you can’t join the club, get rid of it. Tear it down. Destroy it. Annihilate it. Hitler's intentions weren't simply to kill the Jews; he wanted to erase them from the planet, eliminate their history and all traces of them. Newby fits this mold. When he finally got his shot at being the Grand Poobah he spent all of his time getting rid of the things that reminded him of his bad ambitions. Words, phrases, philosophies, pictures, paintings, models, signs, and eventually people.

The more we hunger and the more we want to prove our worth, the more our contempt grows and, eventually, we begin to hate those denying us entry to the club. Then that denial, real, imagined or perceived, becomes an obsession that leads to unfortunate and often disastrous conclusions.

My last solid memory of Newby the Bully is him sitting like that disinterested slacker in the back of the classroom completely unresponsive to anything we had to offer, say, contribute . . . ponder.

Sometimes, you’re not meant to be a part of the club. Sometimes, the club isn’t for you. Club, clique, group, lunch-buddies, whatever you want to call it. Sometimes, you don’t fit in no matter how hard you want too. Sometimes, you just can’t make people like you. You can make them feel as if they should, but really, you only look silly doing that.

Another perspective on this rumination is the technique that Snobby shops use to make you buy things in their snobby shops. The Sales-peeps watch you with aloofness as if your very presence is offensive to them. It ignites a spark in you. Suddenly, uncontrollably, you want to prove to the Snobbies that you CAN afford something in their damn shop. You become angry that your money isn’t good enough for them, or that you’re not good enough for their product. Either you don’t buy anything, and then bitch about it later, or you DO buy something . . . and still bitch about it. Is your pride still intact, or did you get too angry? . . . and now you can’t take back those hateful words, those angry actions, those dreadful feelings and all that hate, because for a moment or two, you allowed someone to make you feel less than what you are. Moreover, the Snobby Sales-peeps have a clown to laugh about over lunch.

And you bought that damn shirt, or dress, or tchotchke that you didn't really want or need.

Tell someone enough times that they can't have something and it'll become an obsession worthy of murderous intentions.