Rules of Engagement

I can take the insults. I can take the vitriol. I can take your slurs, your whispers, your thinly veiled contempt. I can even take your indifference.

But one thing I cannot countenance is a compliment. Someone says, “Rob, you look nice today,” and suddenly I’m unmoored.

I can take the punches, the full-frontal attacks, the backstabbing. I can even take the coordinated smear campaigns. If someone calls me “overrated,” I usually say, “Is it Tuesday already?”

Insults keep me hungry. Hungry like the wolf. Compliments, on the other hand, try to feed me — and I’ve never trusted a meal that arrives without a bill.

Attacks — verbal or physical — are easy enough. I can deflect. I can parry. I can riposte. I can use them as fodder or even, though I won’t say it aloud, learn from them. An insult is a blade. It has direction. It has intent. It comes at you clean. I am built for en garde. For parry, thrust, retreat, advance. I understand the geometry of conflict.

But a compliment?

A compliment is someone lowering their weapon and saying, “Not bad.”

What am I supposed to do with that? I thought this was combat. What happened to the rules of engagement?

When someone pays me a compliment, I have no idea what to do. I look down at my shoes. I shrug. I mumble something about how whatever they noticed was probably an accident.

There is no elegant way to accept a compliment.

If I deny it — “No, no, you should have seen me yesterday” — I sound insincere. If I agree — “Yes, still got it” — I sound like a Bond villain. I like the idea of breathing hot air onto my nails and shining them against my shirt, but I never think of that until waaaay later.

In fencing, when someone lowers their blade, the referee calls “halt.” The match resets. There are rules.

Which is why I’ve always believed the greatest character in cinema is Inspector Clouseau’s personal servant, Kato. As you may know, Kato has been instructed to attack the Inspector at any time and any place. The more unexpected, the better. The theory is that constant attack — and the threat of constant attack — keeps Clouseau sharp, alert, at the top of his game.

This, by the way, is how the best of the best do it. They never settle. Never rest. Never lower their guard.

Which is why a compliment out of the blue catches me flat-footed. If I were given some kind of warning, I might be able to steel myself. But no one ever says, “Rob, I’d like to admire you briefly in three to five business days.” No, they just arrive from left field. In the produce aisle. In the parking lot. At a charity function.

Compliments make me feel vulnerable because they are always versions of approval. I claim I don’t seek approval. And yet when it arrives unannounced, it disorients me.

My repertoire is parry, thrust, deflect, counter. I am very comfortable being uncomfortable — which is why I love conflict. My comfort zone is conflict.

Accepting a compliment, on the other hand, requires stillness. Reflection. Acceptance. A moment without combat. And that feels incredibly dangerous.

Luckily, I don’t have to deal with compliments very often. They arrive once or twice a year. But if you happen to be one of the rare few who reach out with one, please don’t be offended if I don’t respond gracefully. I’m not used to accolades. I was not built for peacetime. I am a man of conflict. I live for war.

So if you insist on complimenting me, may I ask that you follow it with a light shove. Or a mild critique. Just something to keep the blade warm.