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Aaron has been preaching the same piece of advice to his kids for years: give a gift to your future self. It’s great advice—until it isn’t. In this episode, a public library talk goes sideways fast, and Aaron learns the hard way that even the best-laid plans can’t stop a surprise bloodbath.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
Man, I've been giving advice to my kids like I’m the king of advice. Much of it is good. Much of it makes sense. Much of it will help them.
But there’s a particular piece of advice that I recently learned will not work one hundred percent of the time. And there's a story behind that. I’ll tell you the story—right after the music.
[Music]
Give a gift to your future self.
That’s what I tell my kids all the time. And honestly, you can apply this to a lot of different things in your life. Hell, you could use this right now. You want to go full Tony Robbins? We can do it. Think of your future self in every decision you make.
And I’m not even talking about big-time decisions. I mean the small things—like when you come into the house. Don’t just set your coat, your leftovers from the restaurant, or whatever you're bringing in on the table and then go do two or three different things. Because next thing you know, you've got a pile of stuff that just sits there.
Don’t wait two weeks to clean your room. Do a five-minute room check every night.
Why? Because it’s a gift to your future self.
See, the present self doesn’t care about the future self. The present self is lazy. The present self says, “I don’t want to get up early tomorrow. I don’t want to record that podcast.” Understandably so. The present self just wants to be in the moment.
But the present self is often the enemy of the future self.
And then the future self? The future self is mad at the past self—because the past self was the present self that didn’t care about the future self. And the future self is left with all the burdens. The messy rooms. The dishes. The unfinished homework.
By the way—I didn’t do any of this stuff for most of my life. I learned the hard way.
So what I try to do is give my kids a formula. Take what I’ve learned, apply it to your life, and save yourself some trouble. You’ll thank me later.
At least that’s the plan.
I’m 42 now, giving all this advice like I know something. And my kids are like, “Uh-huh. I know.” And I’m like, “You don’t know! If you knew, you’d do it. But you don’t. And that’s okay.”
Because I didn’t know either. Not until I was 35. So now, I’m gifting them this lesson I learned through pain.
And that one piece of advice—give a gift to your future self—it usually works.
It means you prepare. You do the work. You de-risk the future. That’s the whole idea.
But here’s a quick story that proves it doesn’t always go as planned.
I had a speaking event. I’d been doing volunteer work with public libraries in my county and the surrounding areas—hosting podcast classes, storytelling workshops. Stuff I normally charge companies for, but I’m doing it for free, for the community.
Still, I take it just as seriously as any paid gig.
It’s my thing—whether it's two people or 2,000, I give everything I’ve got. It’s always Madison Square Garden when I tell a story.
So I prepared.
I knew what I was going to say. I had my mic, my gear. I was meeting Ken—my producing partner here at 7 Minute Stories. My wife, Cori, was coming. My in-laws. People from the community. Big day.
I show up 30 minutes early. My plan is working. I even get a great parking spot.
I meet Chris at the library—he’s helping coordinate. He’s busy. I tell him, “Don’t worry. I’m good to go.” I grab my mic. I meet Ken and Cori. We head into the room.
People start coming in. I glide my hand along a table… and I feel a slight cut.
No big deal, I think. Just a tiny nick.
But then I look down—and my finger is gushing blood. Like, shaving cut times ten. It will not stop. It’s streaking down my hand.
And now people are walking in. Saying hi. Reaching to shake my hand.
This one guy goes, “Hi, nice to meet you.” I look at my hand and go, “Sir, I cannot shake your hand.”
I’m already making great impressions.
Blood. Down my arm. I look like I’ve just walked off a battlefield. I turn to Ken and say, “I gotta go.”
I hide my arm and start moving quickly through the hallway. People are walking in as I’m walking out. They’re wondering what is going on.
I find Chris. “Chris, do you have a first aid kit?” He sees the blood and goes, “Dear God.”
“It’s just a paper cut!” I yell. But it won’t stop bleeding.
He scrambles. Finally finds the kit. I head to the bathroom—but the door has one of those pull handles. And I have blood on both hands.
So now I’m using my foot to try and open the door. I’m kicking it like it’s a damn heist movie.
Some guy opens the door, sees me, and goes, “Oh my God. Jesus!”
I go, “I know. Just call me Aaron.”
He jumps out of the way. I go in. Start rinsing my hand with hot water—which, fun fact, increases blood flow. So yeah, not great.
Finally, with paper towels, Band-Aids, and medical tape, I wrap it all up. Three or four layers.
I look like I broke my finger in a bar fight.
I walk back in. Everyone’s seated. I keep my swollen finger in my pocket the whole time.
I give the speech. I do the job. But I’m dodging eye contact. Not pointing with my right hand. It’s a mess.
Now—did my advice work? Was I prepared?
Sure.
But could I have prepared for that?
Hell no.
That’s what my kids need to understand too. Yes—prepare. Yes—give gifts to your future self.
But life? Life throws curveballs. Sometimes you just gotta improvise. Be in the moment. Find the helpers. Adapt.
Sometimes you’re the guy who slices his finger on a mystery wall and walks into a library bleeding like you just left a horror movie.
So yeah—I’ll keep giving the dad advice.
But I’ll also stay open to learning that sometimes it’s not about preparation or de-risking the future.
Sometimes… it’s just about being in the moment.
