"The world is a dangerous place, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who won't do anything about it" -- Albert Einstein

Deep within the heart of many men is the fear that they lack courage -- and that they wouldn't step in the way of a bullet meant for their wife or children. They hope they will, but they aren't sure. They aren't confident. And it bothers them because a man who lacks courage isn't a man.

Many men feel this way. I have felt this way. After my first child was born, I attempted to change this. I'm still a work in progress.

"The one thing I am most happy about right now is that I don't work for you," I said emphatically.

"What?" replied my dinner appointment in surprise. Let's call this 43-year-old CEO of a rapidly growing company Frank. We had just met. And Frank had just made a condescending, sexually demeaning comment to our waitress at the famed Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Our waitress could only smile back at him uncomfortably and then glance at me, as if to ask "Who's your creepy friend?" Frank's arrogance clearly exceeded his considerable smartness. And his action pushed me to keep a commitment I'd made to myself after receiving life-saving surgery: the commitment to not allow such people into my life.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to work for you because I would be deathly afraid to tell you if I made a mistake and because you have a capacity for contempt that crosses over into abuse," I said. "When my undiscovered mistake causes you to have to explain a mess to the board of directors, what are you going to do, blame it on a little person like me? I don't think so. After all, the company is your responsibility, isn't it? Life is just too short to put up with crap from a bully like you."

His jaw dropped. Looking at me incredulously, he said, "Nobody has ever talked to me that way."

"Well, maybe it takes one to know one," I said. "But more importantly, is it true?"

"It's all true. It cost me a marriage, a relationship with my kids, and a job," Frank confessed. Then he leaned forward and, as if he didn't want anyone to hear, whispered, "Is it curable?"

I replied without missing a beat. "It's an addiction; the best you can be is a bully in recovery," I said. "You have to work on it every day or else you'll slide back. But it's probably worth it, because at the end of your life you'll be less bitter and have more friends, and people won't have to lie at your funeral to come up with nice things to say about you. You'll accomplish more than you thought possible."

He laughed. "Can you help me?"

I pondered that for a moment. "I'm trying to figure out whether you're a bully to your core. If you delight in beating up on people, especially those who can't fight back like our waitress here, then I won't help you," I said. "That's because you have already taken from life more than you deserve. And furthermore, I would help anyone who has to deal with you to beat you. If, however, you act like a bully because it gets things done and you don't know any better, then there is some wiggle room. I might work with you."

"Which one am I?" he asked.

"Well, if I'm going to be your shrink -- your coach -- I get to ask the questions. Which one do you think you are?"