A few years ago, I was talking with a friend at church, trying to rope him into some bro-time with some other guys. He regularly attended Sunday Services with his wife and three beautiful daughters, but rarely attended any of the Men’s events. Based on the stories he’d told me, I knew that he enjoyed the outdoors. I tossed out a lure.
“Hey, do you like to fish?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “But I don’t get much time to do it anymore.”
Bingo!
“A few of us are going fishing the first Saturday in October. You oughtta come with us!” It was several weeks away—plenty of time to shift things around, if needed.
“Who all’s going?” That was a good follow-up. Fishing is something that’s not compatible with every personality type. A mix of the wrong chemistry, and we could easily find ourselves in a Lord of the Flies sequel. I gave a rundown of the usual suspects.
“Where are you going?” he queried. This was starting to feel like a job interview.
“Sully knows a hidden spot near Normandy Lake that he says the fish practically jump onto the bank.” He wasn’t going to say no to that, right?
“Yeah, sounds okay. Remind me the week before, and we’ll see how it goes.”
SKRRT!
Hold up! Remind you?
What just happened here? He casually shifted the burden of his participation onto my plate. He did it so nonchalantly that it seemed like this was his default position. In the blink of an eye, my invitation transformed into a task. I wasn’t just organizing the outing—I was now managing his memory, too.
I noticed the iPhone in his shirt pocket, which came standard with a Calendar app, but somehow, I had unwittingly accepted a position as his unpaid intern.
This was a consequential moment, and I didn’t want to let the opportunity pass me by. Maybe others had run into this before with him, but I wasn’t concerned about them. This time, it was happening to me. And something needed to be done to at least point out to him that his response was rude. For a brief moment, I felt Siri’s pain.
Tilting my head slightly, I gave him a smirk—the kind that leans to one side, like: “Nice try, pal.”
“Nooo,” I said, letting my pitch rise just enough to make it clear he’d misunderstood the situation.
“I’m not gonna do that. I’m not your wife, or your mother, or your secretary. You’re a grown man with a beard, and a job, and a driver’s license, and everything. I’m offering a sincere invitation to join us, and I’d really like you to come. But this is the only invitation you’re getting. Do with it what you will.”
I patted him on the shoulder, offered a genuine smile, and he said, “Okay.”
END SCENE
What I’d stumbled into during that exchange was something quite common today. It’s deeply corrosive—a soft but cutting form of selfishness masquerading as casual politeness. It’s not just passive, it’s strategic passivity. And it infects more than just social planning.
This technique is a type of “relational hedging”—a way of keeping one foot in the door of every opportunity without ever stepping fully into any of them. We want to extract all the benefits that come with not having to say “no,” but underneath that are several troubling dynamics at work.
Disguised Entitlement
The person assumes they’re a VIP and deserve to be included—it’s just the natural order of things. It’s the logic of “save me a seat, but I don’t want to buy a ticket and get stuck with it if I bail.” Like that roommate who thinks he shouldn’t have to pay full rent because he crashes at his girlfriend’s most nights, but still wants you to keep his room ready, in case she gets tired of his half-effort, full-entitlement lifestyle and sends him packing.
Rent isn’t about usage, it’s about reservation. Paying rent secures certain rights: a place to put your stuff, facilities to promote hygiene, and common areas to fellowship, if you want. It doesn’t matter whether you spend one minute in the residence or not. What you’re paying for is the space.
The same goes for commitment. When you say yes to something, you’re not just buying the experience—you’re reserving that time, that space, and that role. Then, and only then, does it belong to you. But when someone says, “Remind me the week before,” they want the reservation without the rent. They want to keep you in limbo in case nothing better comes along, and, worse, they expect you to manage their options like some unpaid concierge.
Fear of Missing Out (FOMO)
The person is unwilling to close the door to other possibilities. They aren’t weighed down by obligations or responsibilities—they’re bloated with potentialities. They’ve lightly penciled in your invitation—no ink pens, here. That’s too permanent. They don’t want to miss out on more self-serving choices.
It’s like “Schrödinger’s cat”—the famous thought experiment where something exists in two opposite states at once—except it’s a party. It simultaneously is and is not the best night of everyone’s life, and you, in a moment of familial unconsciousness, promised your eight-year-old niece you’d go to her dance recital.
I mean, my gosh, “What if everyone bonds without me?” That’s what they fear. Not missing the event, but missing the moment where they become essential to it. So, they hover at the edge of commitment, hoping the universe will RSVP on their behalf.
Avoidance of Discomfort
The person wants to steer clear of confrontation or guilt, so they reach for faux-courtesy—a kind of social Febreze sprayed over the stink of avoidance. It’s like stepping on your foot and complimenting your shoes instead of apologizing. Maybe a little charm, a well-timed emoji, or a slick Instagram filter will get them out of the jam. Underneath it all, they might be terrified of conflict. Or, in a fit of projection, they just assume you’re too fragile to handle a “no” without rage-quitting the friendship—it’s what they’d do. Accountability is optional when you can curate contrition.
Inversion of Obligation
Here’s the one that really gets me. By asking you to remind them, they flip the weight of responsibility onto you. They now expect you to chase them, to nag them, and maybe even be gracious when they ghost you entirely. They want to borrow your car, but want you to slap a Post-It Note on your fridge to remind them to return it. That way, if they forget, guess who’s the bad guy? Spoiler: it’s you.
I’m reminded of the saying, “Everybody likes free stuff, but nobody likes a freeloader.” When we respond to an invitation with a “Maybe. We’ll see,” or a “Remind me when it gets closer,” we’re not exercising flexibility—we’re freeloading on someone’s goodwill. We want to cling to a possibility without incurring a cost. Or, cloaked in casualness, we expect others to manage our commitments for us. It’s not forgetfulness—it’s entitlement with a relaxed dress code.
Convenience is neither the cornerstone nor the mortar to friendship, fellowship, or community. And if we can’t commit to fishing, how can we possibly have a chance at committing to the harder things? Like a marriage hitting choppy waters? Or being there for a child who doesn’t have a dad? Or actually praying for someone when we told them we would… to their face?
That fishing trip? Nah, he didn’t come. Never followed up. But I went… alongside men who knew how to say yes, and really meant it. And the fish? They didn’t leap onto the bank. But the commitment landed—solid, real, no reminders needed. And I refuse to call that a miracle.
Look, we’re never going to build anything that lasts if no one is willing to pay the rent on commitment. This begins at home. Watch your language and habits. If you’ve become a chronic hedger, stockpiling options like a doomsday prepper, take a hard look in the mirror. Is it polite to others? Is it kind? Or is it just your way of clutching even the toys you never intended to play with?
If you run into this kind of hedging, tread lightly. Be thoughtful. Don’t go all Gordon Ramsay on their character flaw. Instead, calculate the investment you’ve made into that person’s life, and whether you’ve earned the right to call it out. Then, and only then, should you privately (and with grace) point out the destructive potential of that kind of manipulation.
Don’t apologize for wanting a straight answer.
Your goodwill isn’t their personal assistant. Save it for the people who show up, ready to commit, not just browse the catalog of possibilities.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
