There was a teenager in my neighborhood named Mickey who nobody saw much anymore. He had broken his neck diving into the swimming pool and was paralyzed in a wheelchair. It was very awkward talking to Mickey now and we kids avoided him.

On this particular Saturday in 1974, I was mowing the lawn, sweating, sneezing, and cursing aloud (at no one in particular) because I was missing out on the baseball game at the neighborhood picnic. For some reason, shouting profanities dulled my angst and I didn’t think anybody could hear me over the roar or the lawnmower. That day, Mickey heard me.

“What were you swearing about?” he asked me, a few hours later during the picnic. “My father made me mow the lawn,” was my answer. “Wanna make a deal?” Mickey asked me. “Sure, what’s up?” Then Mickey said something I’ll never forget. “How about if I mow the lawn for you from now on and you can sit in this wheelchair for the rest of your life?” Then he smiled.

Mickey died a few years later, from some type of complication, but I see his smiling face a lot when I need some perspective.

When you really think about it, complaining sure is a selfish – and arrogant – waste of time.

Give that a ponder next time you get stuck in traffic, your restaurant service is slow, your kid misbehaves, you stub your toe, or (God forbid) you have to mow the lawn.