Hot Josh and the Coat of Many Colors

This week’s story was supposed to be funny.

I had options.

Believe me.

There is no shortage of situations in which I’ve concluded that the universe could improve its customer service.

But then Dolly Parton died.

And somehow complaining about parking spaces, checkout lines, restaurant reservations or somebody putting too much ice in my drink didn’t feel right this week.

So I’m using my entitlement differently.

I’m declaring myself entitled to dedicate this week’s story to Dolly.

Nobody voted on it.

Nobody approved it.

There was no committee.

I’m Hot Josh.

I’m doing it.

And strangely enough, Dolly once taught me something about entitlement.

I didn’t particularly appreciate it at the time.

Years ago, I wanted something.

What it was doesn’t really matter anymore.

That’s probably the first indication of how desperately important it actually wasn’t.

But somebody else had a better version.

Newer.

Nicer.

More expensive.

And naturally, I decided this situation represented a profound injustice.

I didn’t merely want what they had.

I deserved it.

Why?

Excellent question.

I had reasons.

None of them survive cross-examination today.

But at the time, they were magnificent.

I had worked hard.

I had waited.

Other people had nice things.

Therefore, according to the Supreme Court of Josh, I was entitled to an upgrade.

Then Dolly came through the speakers.

“Coat of Many Colors.”

I’d heard it before.

Most people have.

But sometimes you hear a song a hundred times before you actually hear it once.

Dolly sang about a little girl whose mother made her a coat from scraps because that was what the family could afford.

Other children laughed at her.

They saw something cheap.

She saw something made with love.

And suddenly whatever supposedly inadequate thing I had didn’t seem quite so inadequate anymore.

That irritated me.

I was enjoying my outrage.

Now Dolly Parton was interfering with it.

I started thinking about all the things we decide we’re entitled to simply because somebody else has more.

A newer car.

A bigger house.

Better clothes.

A better job.

More money.

More attention.

A different life.

We’re surrounded by people telling us what we’re missing.

Then here comes Dolly, a woman who grew up dirt poor in the mountains of Tennessee, singing that one of the richest things she’d ever owned was a coat sewn together from scraps.

Well, hell.

That’s inconvenient.

Because once you understand that, you have to ask yourself a terrible question:

What do I already have that I’ve been too busy comparing to appreciate?

I didn’t buy the thing I thought I needed.

I kept what I had.

And amazingly, civilization survived.

So did I.

That’s not to say I stopped wanting things.

Please.

This is still Hot Josh.

Let’s maintain some credibility.

I’ve spent years since then believing I deserved better seats, shorter lines, faster service, bigger portions, free upgrades and several policies rewritten specifically because they inconvenienced me.

Dolly wasn’t a miracle worker.

But she planted something.

Perspective.

And Dolly seemed to have a remarkable amount of it.

She became enormously successful without pretending she’d never been poor.

She became glamorous without being embarrassed about where she came from.

She accumulated wealth while spending enormous amounts of it helping other people.

She gave children books.

She helped communities after disasters.

She supported medical research.

And through all of it, she kept talking about that little cabin, that enormous family and that coat made from scraps.

She never seemed ashamed of having once had very little.

Maybe because she understood something many people who have everything never figure out:

Having more and being rich aren’t necessarily the same thing.

Dolly Parton died this week.

And the world feels a little less colorful because of it.

But somewhere tonight, a child is opening a book because of Dolly Parton.

Somebody is singing one of her songs.

Somebody who grew up poor is looking at everything she accomplished and thinking maybe where you start doesn’t determine where you finish.

And somewhere, somebody is hearing “Coat of Many Colors” for the hundredth time.

Maybe tonight will be the first time they actually hear it.

It happened to me.

So there isn’t much of a punchline this week.

Just a thank you.

Thank you, Dolly.

For the songs.

For the laughter.

For the rhinestones.

For never pretending success required forgetting where you came from.

And for occasionally reminding one extremely entitled man that he already had more than he realized.

The lesson?

Hot Josh still believes he’s entitled to plenty.

But Dolly Parton taught him that sometimes the thing you’re convinced isn’t good enough…

is already your coat of many colors.

Rest easy, Dolly.

And thank you for making the world a hell of a lot more colorful while you were here.