little big things
My last blog entry was posted over a month ago. It’s not for lack of trying, I just haven’t been able to write. I don’t mean to say that I’ve been too busy to write; I mean that I haven’t been able to write.
Shortly after I wrote that last post, I was in a car accident. The short version is that I wound up being ambulanced to the nearest hospital with neck and back immobility, a skull-wracking migraine and loss of peripheral vision. I was terrified that it was going to be a repeat of 2007 and the accident that left me incapacitated for more than six months. Fortunately, after about five days in bed, my neck and back righted themselves and, though the headaches have persisted, they’ve been intermittent and manageable.
The aftermath of this particular ball of wax has also included fatigue, insomnia and a record-breaking stretch of nightmares. This morning, I woke up from my two or so hours of sleep with my heart racing. Some end-of-the-world-meets-mind-control number this time.
Do I sound like I’m kvetching? I’m not meaning to. I’ve tried to keep it to the basics, but it’s important that I set the scene.
As I said at the start of this post, I haven’t been able to write. I’ve set aside time to write. I’ve done all the right things to set myself up for success to write. But the sheer fact of the matter was that, circumstances being what they’ve been, my brain was just not able to focus, and no amount of discipline was going to change that for the time being.
If you’ve read my book, The Best Advice So Far, or have been making yourself comfortable here on my blog for any time at all, you’ll be well familiar with the central credo:
You always have a choice.
I use the word “credo” here, because I want to focus on a particular point: that this is more than a motivational platitude for me. It’s a core belief, a guiding force in my life, and it is at the heart of any advice I may share with others along the way.
However, that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. It’s a guiding force, yes, but a force to be reckoned with all the same.
As I sat again last week in front of an empty page for the third week in a row, I felt it happen. My heart was pounding. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t get a full breath. An acrid tingle crept around the back of my jaw. At first, I thought it was yet another manifestation of general weirdness from the accident; but after a few minutes, I recognized it for what it was.
In a word, what I felt was resentment.
I felt angry. I felt pressured, like I was being forced to the narrow end of a funnel. I felt robbed by yet another situation beyond my control in what seemed from where I sat like quite a long chain of them.
But as I felt that resentment seeping into my soul, threatening to take over, I managed to counter it with a moment of focused silence and reflection. And as countless times before, in that space I had created, the voice of my own advice came back to me:
Life is not fair.
The sooner you accept this,
the happier you will be. (CH 5)
You have to start from where you are,
not from where you wish you were. (CH 4)
In fact, in the very first chapter of The Best Advice So Far – the same chapter which holds as its central advice “You always have a choice – I am careful to add this:
Don't misunderstand me. I'm not saying that we get to choose everything that happens to us in life. We do not choose abuse, for instance, and we can at no time choose to undo those things which have happened to us in life.
We do not choose illness. We do not choose when or how the people we love will leave us. Or die.
We do, however, have the choice of how we will respond in every situation, even the hurtful ones. Instead, so often, we pour our frustration and anger into those things we cannot change, rather than investing that energy into the many choices that we can make from that point forward.
You see, I had been feeling like my choices had all been stolen from me. Yet in actuality, I was fixated on only one choice that was outside my ability to make at that moment. True, I could not write. But there were countless other choices that I could still make – even in my current state. In fact, I had already made one, in deciding not to give in to the rising tide of resentment, but rather to clear some space for a centering moment.
I got up from my desk and began to walk.
I may not have been able to write, but walking was a choice I could make.
Soon, I began to look at the accident differently. I could walk. Others who’d been brought to the ER the day I was there were not so fortunate.
In the living room and sitting room, I noticed for the first time (yes, in May) that I still had a few straggling Christmas decorations out. Wicker stars hung on window latches. A ceramic snowman with a yarn scarf defied melting on my piano. A classic Winnie-the-Pooh sat atop a bookshelf, masquerading as Saint Nick.
One by one, I packed them up and tucked them away with the rest of the ornaments and trimmings until next Season.
This was a choice I could make.
With the winter things in storage, the heavy white stack candle in the middle of the square white coffee table seemed ponderous and mournful. I packed that away, as well. From the bathroom, I pulled a few sea shells from a bowl, a few pieces of sea glass from another container. I rummaged through my chest of candles and retrieved some small silver geometric holders and placed tea lights in them.
Bringing a bit of summer to my space was a choice I could make.
I opened some windows and invited in the warm breeze. The sheer white curtains danced for the first time since I’d put them up last November, after I moved in.
Opening windows was a choice I could make.
I dusted away some cobwebs from ceiling corners.
I cleaned the two or three dishes that lay in the sink.
I replaced low-wattage light bulbs with higher-wattage natural ones, trading orange and dingy for a room-altering dose of bright and sunny.
I carefully coiled an unused and unsightly black cable that poked through low on a wall and lay in a scraggle beside the couch, pinning it neatly out of sight.
It was surprising just how many choices I could make, once I set my mind to it.
I’d love to be able to tell you that once these small choices had been made, my mind and creativity opened up. I’d love to report that I rushed to my computer where furious fingers flew across the keyboard resulting in this post.
I’d love to tell you this was the way it happened. But that would be a lie.
In reality, the choices I’d made were admittedly little things. Yet each one, in its own way, began to brighten my living space – and my “inside space.”
I did not write that day. But I lit the candles and sat in my living room, which now felt refreshingly “beachy.” I enjoyed the breeze. I breathed. My heart rate was no longer up. I was out of the self-imposed pressure funnel and feeling peaceful.
The next day was a bit better.
And the next.
And here I am, back to writing once again.
More proof (at least to myself) that happiness is a choice, as is misery ( CH 2 READ IT NOW, FREE).
You don’t get to choose everything in life all the time. But it remains true, that “you always have a choice.”
I wanted to take this opportunity to give you a glimpse into how that has looked for me lately.
If you find yourself focusing right now on the parts of life over which you have no control, why not take a deep breath and look around you for the “little big things” you can choose to change.
how i vote
I vote.
During each of the seven previous presidential elections that has occurred since I turned 18, I have voted.
I will do so again come election 2016.
However, in these nearly 30 years of adulthood, only once have I ever told anyone how I voted.
For that year’s election, I opted for a write-in nomination, neatly printing the name of a friend of mine. It was the only way I could think of to continue to exercise my right to vote while not being able to, in good conscience, get behind any of the officially proffered candidates that year. My friend was amused when I told him; and he can now truthfully tell his children and grandchildren that he was once on the ballot to become President of the United States.
I’m a pretty open person. But there are some things I just don’t talk about. My vote (in fact, politics on the whole) is one of them.
Why all the secrecy? As is my way, let me start with a story.
Back when the Internet was new and shiny – when AOL chat rooms were where the cool kids hung out, and emails containing poorly written and saccharine poetry frightened people into Forwarding them by questioning your love for Jesus if you didn’t – I used to get “those” questionnaires from friends. You know the ones. They had 50 to 100 questions (why so many, I’ll never understand), asking such insightful things as “Peanut butter or bologna?” or “If you could only wear one color ever again, what would it be?” And, of course, you’d also wind up getting a whole slew of these questionnaires from the dozens of other people who had received it and spent good chunks of their day answering every question in detail.
A variant of the questionnaire was the online quiz. You’d go to a website, make up 10 questions about yourself with multiple-choice answers, and then send the link around to your friends, complete with the taunt “Let’s see which of my friends really knows me the best.” Of course, this was always fodder for much interpersonal drama when people who fancied themselves your “bestest bud” would get a 20% and then claim that you somehow cheated.
Well, I caved in and made one such quiz (don’t judge me, I was young once). I don’t recall all of the questions I posed, but I do recall this one:
I have befriended all of the following except:
A. a porn star
B. a deaf-blind Indian boy
C. a nun
D. a serial killer
And, of course, at the time, the correct answer was …
(For those who don’t know the back stories on some of these, it’s probably best that you don’t start jumping to conclusions.)
I’m happy to report that I have also since befriended a few nuns (though I frisked them for rulers first).
The point is – I like people. All kinds of people. And that means that I count the most liberal of left-wing Democrats and the most conservative of right-wing Republicans among my friends.
I have friends who cover their vehicles in bumper stickers announcing how they will vote.
I have friends who have told me, “I love my church! They just hand out pamphlets that tell you how Christians should vote on every issue and candidate. I used to get confused, but now it’s so easy!”
I have friends who have quite literally ignored every political issue beyond finding out a candidate’s public stand on abortion and gay marriage, and that is how they cast their vote.
I have friends who sigh in admiration at the name of Barack Obama while sucking their teeth in disgust at the mere mention of Ronald Reagan. And I have friends who are still seething that Obama was ever elected in the first place, while affectionately caressing their retro bobblehead of Reagan as they perpetually mourn the end of his term in office.
The funny thing is, I’d be willing to bet that if you asked anyone within this wide scope of friends how they think I vote, they would each tell you that I vote exactly the same way they do.
So how is it, with my never having told anyone how I vote, that such disparate political proponents would all believe that I’m casting my vote in alignment with their thinking?
My best friend, Dib, hosted my 40th birthday party at her home. Guests around the table included those closest to me at the time, some of whom had never met before then. I was seated at the head of the table, where a golden crown was placed on my head. Many hugs were exchanged. Teary toasts were given. Faces were lit with joy all around.
What’s more, everyone exclaimed for weeks afterward how much they each enjoyed not only the celebration, but meeting the other important people in my life. Virtues were extolled – how generous or fun or intelligent or kind this one thought that one was. The term “good people” ushered forth from lips many times in these discourses.
Yet mere minutes later, as the conversations shifted topics, the same people would vehemently assert things like, “What kind of [fill in unsavory label, e.g., moron, bigot, etc.] would ever vote for [fill in name of presidential candidate from the opposing political party]?” with the clear assumption that I was in full agreement with them. Some have even gone so far as to say they “could never be friends” with anyone who voted this way or that on an issue, or for a candidate they opposed.
Really? They all thought the world of one another at the party, where no one had considered how anyone else might cast their vote. It caused me to wonder: would their positive opinions of one another change on a dime if they knew that the person they'd been seated next to at the party was casting their vote for the other guy?
It all begs the question: how is it that I’ve managed to remain friends with so many people who have such adamant and yet polar opposite viewpoints from one another? Moreover, how have I so long escaped having been “found out” for my true political beliefs? I mean, clearly, many of my friends would have to include me among the list of [morons, bigots, nincompoops, etc.] if they knew my political beliefs.
Really, when it all comes down to it, according to lines they themselves have drawn in the sand, they would be obliged to hate me, should they discover that my viewpoints conflicted with their own.
It’s not that I have no thoughts or beliefs or convictions.
I don’t just pander to whomever I happen to be with at the moment.
I’m not afraid of being rejected for having thoughts, beliefs or stands that may not align with those of friends.
I started this post telling you that I’ve never told anyone how I’ve voted. I’ve given you some observations, stories and cases in point. Now let me spell out for you why I’ve chosen not to reveal my hand when it comes to politics.
Chapter 24 of The Best Advice So Far has this central piece of advice:
Focus on the person not the problem.
In making the choice not to assert my own “rightness” regarding issues or candidates, I allow others to express their own beliefs and the reasons for them, freely and unchecked.
My goal is not to get someone to agree with my take on things; it’s merely to understand theirs better, and in so doing, to understand that person better. This is a much more worthwhile “cause” for me than debating over any political stand.
Chapter 21 of The Best Advice So Far focuses on this advice:
Asking the right kind of questions works better than making statements.
In choosing to refrain from telling people about my political beliefs, I leave room for asking more of the right kind of questions – questions that, for instance, start with “What if …?” or “How might …?”
While I’ve never seen anyone argue anyone else into changing a political (or religious) belief, I have witnessed the power of earning the right to ask questions that cause people to reflect on why they believe what they believe. And over time, I actually have seen people gradually open themselves up to new perspectives and either change their stance entirely or at least begin to experience true empathy and tolerance for those who don’t see things in quite the same way.
To be sure, there are times when people will outright ask me, “So what do you think about [insert political issue or candidate]?” And my answer is most always the same, some version of this: “Funny you should ask. I’ve never told anyone how I vote or what my political beliefs are. Do you see me as a reasonable, intelligent, caring person who wants the best for other people and for the country?” And the reply is usually, “Yes, that’s why I want to know what you think,” to which I reply, “… and that is exactly why I don’t tell anyone. I might agree with you 100%. I might not. What if you were to find I don’t agree with your position?”
It’s fun to watch the other person’s eyes go wide, to hear the audible swallow as they think (most likely for the first time), Oh my god! Is he one of … them?!
But what it does over time is cause them to really think – to ponder that “what if …?” without the immediate barrier of being able to neatly place me in “the other camp” where their auto-response of prejudice can kick in.
I usually try to tie up posts with a clear take-away point. It seems antithetical with this one. I'm not trying to convince you to take my approach, to avoid talking politics (or any other topic). Rather, I hope I’ve at least opened your mind to some new thinking. What you do with it, if anything, is your choice.
becoming
In last week’s post, I told you that a college student I used to mentor interviewed me for a paper he’s writing on “The Happiest Person You Know.” But I also mentioned in the same post that I haven’t always been the happy sort.
If you were to ask just about anyone who knows me, they would tell you that I have the patience of Job. They would tell you that, for the most part, I have a contagious aura of peace about me. They would tell you that I don’t hang on to stress or worry, and that I shrug off even the worst of offenses relatively quickly. But these things have not always been true of me.
Let me take you back – way back – and see if I can explain how I became the happy and patient and positive guy most people know me as today.
My mother will tell you that when I was very small, I used to make entrances by bounding through doorways, announcing my arrival with “Tah-Dah!” as if I were really something special.
From the earliest years, when I had to climb the shelves like a ladder to get my treasures, I spent long days in the library – a place where my sense of wonder was stretched until I thought it would burst. Every one of these books contains adventures and ideas and fascinating new information about everything! (I felt that way then, and that much has not changed a bit.) I was excited about the bugs and art and fancy scientific names; about the way that words sounded; about history and the world and the people in it, both near and far.
I remember one day when I visited the bathroom in said library. I was sitting on the pot, taking care of business and humming, as I often did, when I discovered something else new and wondrous – reverb. The ceiling was high, the floor tiled and the walls concrete; and so the sound of that humming echoed around me and sounded strange and exciting. So I hummed a little louder. Then I added words and sang. And before I knew it, I was belting out my little tune from my porcelain stage, enraptured by the swirling fullness of it all. I reached the end of the song and let the last of the reverberation die out before hopping down, flushing, washing my hands and heading back out for more book exploration. But when I opened the heavy metal door, I was greeted with the sound of applause from a dozen or so parents and their kids, all gathered around. Even Mrs. Bird, the stern librarian, was among them, clapping enthusiastically and smiling. With teeth. (It was weird.)
This was the kind of kid I was.
But somewhere between the days of wonder and unwitting bathroom concerts, my world got very small and dark. I began to see and experience the worst in people everywhere I turned. And by the time I was 10 or 12, I was anxious.
Fearful.
Bitter.
Angry.
And I felt this way all the time.
in a year
We had done everything we could to expedite check-in at the airport, in preparation for our trip to Miami and the Bahamas. My mother had coordinated tickets so that she, my stepfather and I could be in adjoining seats on the flight, and we had all completed the process of checking in online ahead of time. On the way to the airport, I even downloaded the app from the airline, so that I could get us digital boarding passes on our phones in order to further move things along once we got to Logan International (no easy task; the app was rated two stars out of five, and it was very apparent why).
We parked our car in Braintree, south of the city, and took a shuttle in. Even with all of the travel involved to that point, we were hours early for our flight.
Once at the terminal, though already a bit tired, we were confident as we made our way forward to check our bags. I had my digital boarding pass up on the screen and my license in hand as I stepped forward to the next available representative at the counter. Should be a breeze, I thought, since on top of being ultra-prepared, there were only a handful of other people milling about in the area, none of whom seemed to have done the early check-in online (they were all at kiosks, rather than in line).
I met the rep and with a smile, taking a quick peek at her name tag so I could greet her by name, then handed over my phone and license and began to heft my bag onto the scale. She looked at me and then the bag with what I could only call a chiding face. The first semi-word out of her mouth was “UHN-uh.”
“I’m checking this bag,” I said simply.
“YOU need a TAG!” she said, stabbing the words at me accusingly while still shaking her head.
I found this an odd greeting from anyone, let alone from an airline representative to a customer. But in taking a quick glance around for some other sign or clue, I noticed something like a goldfish bowl full of ID tags with the little elastic bands attached. I already had a leather ID tag on my bag, but I figured it was better to just “follow the rules” with this woman. So I reached toward the bowl – which she promptly slid away from my hand down the counter, lips pursed, eyes wide and head tilted condescendingly.
In a too-loud voice, like someone's bossy great aunt, she pointed one finger vaguely to my left. “YOU got to go over THERE!”
I looked “over there” and didn’t see another line that was marked for pre-checked passengers. In fact, I was sure the line I was in had read “Pre-Checked Passengers Only.”
I began to get the feeling that foam was expanding inside my skull, getting denser and denser. I held up my phone again, showing the digital boarding pass. “I’ve already checked in online,” I said, still feeling swimmy (in the bad way).
She added no new information, arm and finger still rigidly pointing. “You STILL got to go over THERE!” she repeated. “YOU need a LUGGAGE tag!”
Befuddled, I wandered in the general direction of “over there” and had the good fortune of seeing a couple with an equal look of consternation on their faces a few kiosks up the line. They were trying to collect the long pink and white strip that was snaking from the machine like Play-Doh from the Fun Factory (only much less fun). Maybe that’s what she’s talking about, I thought.
The kiosk was its own wonder of confusion and inefficiency. There was no greeting, no instructions. Just some buttons insisting that I enter forms of ID that didn’t pertain to me, since my mother had purchased the tickets. But after studying the screen, I eventually found a way to bypass the other methods and manually type in my confirmation number … along with re-entering all of the details I’d entered online days earlier when I went through the early check-in process.
At long last, out came the pink and white strip. It was clearly a luggage tag of some sort, but did not have clear instructions about which parts peeled off, which you kept, or how to affix it. With the long strip fluttering like a streamer in one hand, I lugged my baggage back over to the woman at the counter, handing her the digital boarding pass, my license – and now the luggage tag.
“UHN-uh!” she said. “I need a BOARDIN’ pass!”
Feeling caught somewhere between helplessness and vexation, I held up my phone a little closer to her (maybe she had poor eyesight?). “This is a boarding pass," I stated, as mildly as possible. "I got it from your own site this morning. And I’m still not sure why I just had to enter all of my information again in order to get a luggage tag, when we all checked in online days ago.”
The woman sucked her teeth, exhaling a condescending sigh. “I can’t USE that. It don’t WORK. Now, I need a BOARDIN’ pass. YOU got to go over THERE!” She was pointing with the same rigid finger back at the kiosk I’d just come from.less stress
i am here
I’m going to start by flat-out challenging you. Here’s the challenge: if you can't spare at least 15 minutes to read this right now – don’t read it. Bookmark it for later when you do have a bit more time. I believe it is so important that I want you to have time to both read it and devote a little time to thinking about what you’ve read, even if that is only a few minutes.
As I begin here, I’m realizing that today’s post will create a bit of a paradox. For in order to be successful, I will need to tell you about something I am choosing not to think about. Moreover, telling you will require thinking. And so, in essence, I’ll be thinking about something I am not thinking about. I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to manage it somehow, without tearing asunder the very fabric of the space-time continuum and whatnot. Wish me luck.
Today, I want to talk about being fully present.
I'm aware that the concept of "being fully present” may sound high-minded and transcendental to some (or as my close friends say, “woo-woo”).
To others, it will sound quite the opposite – cliché and trendy, a mere pop catch phrase for the self-help crowd.
For still others, it will evoke sensory images of plinky massage parlor music or a smiling Buddhist monk, walking silently by a Koi pond while the echo of some distant gong reverberates in the air.
I’d like to simply tell you what it means to me. I hope that, in doing so, it might also help you to decide what, if anything, it might mean to you.
blabber
I read a claim today that women talk three times more than men: 20,000 words per day for women compared with 7,000 for the average man. However, more recent and credible research counters this, stating that the average adult of either sex utters about 16,000 words per day.
To get a better grasp of that number, imagine trying to count from 1 to 16,000 in one stretch. Ready? Go! 1 … 2 … 3 … 4 … 5 … 6 … 7 … 8 … 9 … 10 … 11 …
Is it sinking in yet just how large a number 16,000 words really is?
My goal today isn’t to debate who’s talking more. It’s simply to say that we are all talking an awful lot. But what are we actually saying with all those words?
duplicity
I don’t know about you, but last week’s post really got me thinking. It led me to the realization that all of us, to some degree, are duplicitous, with corners of our lives that don’t seem to fit the whole.
Generally patient people may find themselves yelling aloud in irritation at others while driving.
Encouraging people may wind up consistently assuming the worst where certain family members are concerned.
And otherwise kind people gossip about celebrities.
These areas would seem to be exceptions to the rule in many of our lives. And when someone points them out – or when we read something like last week’s post – we easily recognize that disparity in ourselves. For many, that is enough to prompt us to take steps in bringing that anomalous part of ourselves into harmony with the rest. It’s a process. But we are readily made aware of what’s wrong and where new choices need to be made.
However, those glaring anomalies aren’t what I want to talk about today. Rather, I want to talk about something much more insidious: a kind of duplicity that does not hide in shadows, but rather is adept at lurking in the light. And unless we commit to honing our skills of self-awareness, and then become ruthless in rooting it out, it will continue as an ever-present doppelganger, lingering about unnoticed – and siphoning happiness, fulfillment and peace from our lives.
short on sorry
Things are about to get ugly.
I’m about to tell you a true – but unflattering – story about myself.
you can't make me
Anyone who knows me at all knows that I live by this mantra: “You always have a choice.”
When I think about the daily interactions I have with people, the stories and circumstances change, but the truth of that one statement – and its implications – does not. If you do not accept that you always have a choice, you become a complainer. A cynic. A victim of circumstance.
In my newly released book, The Best Advice So Far, the overriding theme is choice. One chapter is devoted to this idea:
No one can make you happy. If you expect them to, you will always be unhappy.
This is followed by a chapter on a similar idea:
Life is not fair. If you expect it to be, you will always be unhappy.
At first consideration, some may see these as negative statements, akin to “Don’t trust anyone” or “Just accept your knocks in life and trudge forward.” But this couldn’t be further from the truth! These bits of insight, if seen through a lens of choice, are actually some of the most freeing concepts I’ve encountered.
Just today, a friend of mine texted me: “My mother makes me feel like a loser.”
If my friend lives by the belief that he has no choice in life, he instantly becomes the victim here. His mother is the enemy and he is the betrodden. There is nothing he can do but to sit there, feeling like a loser – and consequently living like a loser – all the while blaming his mother for the crime of it.
The truth is, just as no one can make you happy, no one can make you mad. No can make you jealous. And no one can make you feel like a loser. We may choose to live like a loser because someone said so; but make no mistake, it is a choice. Or perhaps we already felt like a loser but are choosing not to take responsibility and commit to a positive course of action to change things. In this case, it is easy to take our own silent feelings and blame them on the person who simply voiced what we were already thinking.
When we truly accept that other people, or some general force called “life,” are not controlling us, we begin to make choices that lead to joy and freedom, rather than to bitterness and immobilization.
Think of it this way. If my friend’s mother had said to me whatever it was she said to him, would I automatically be condemned to feeling like a loser? When we say that someone made us feel a certain way, we place the power in their words. But if the power were truly in the words themselves or within the person who spoke them, they should have the same ill effect on everyone, should they not?
I repeat: You always have a choice.
My friend can choose to let his mother know how her words are coming across. (Believe it or not, people don’t always realize it.)
Through choosing to do some honest self-evaluation, he may find that something his mother touched upon rang true about him, and he may then choose to take steps to change it.
He can choose to hear her words and yet disagree with them, assuring himself that he is on track with positive goals in his life and that his mother is simply not seeing the whole picture.
Or he can choose to live out the part of the victim. The loser.
We certainly don’t choose everything that happens to us in our lives. But we do always have a choice of what how we respond – the choice of what we will do next.
So – what will you choose to do next?
Want to give top-notch compliments?
Check out my guest post at Switch & Shift.
guess
TAKE ONE:
I went through the drive-thru at a coffee shop today. It was nearing 4:00PM and I hadn't eaten yet, so I had to settle for an iced coffee and as healthy a sandwich as such a place might offer. As I rolled my window down to order, I was assaulted by a high-frequency squeal emitting from the order station. I instinctively winced and recoiled from the sound. I couldn't believe a national place like this can't manage to stay on top of fixing their equipment. Honestly – do they want my business? News flash: I don't have to buy their food.
It was tempting to just drive off, but from somewhere within the grating feedback, a small voice addressed me. I couldn't make out what he was asking, or even if it was a "he."
I sighed, shouting back, "I can't hear what you're saying! You're machine is a mess out here!"
I was able to barely get "… sorry … your order …" I assumed it was the usual, "Can I take your order?" The line behind me was getting longer and I just wanted to get out of there. I yelled my order: "A medium decaf French vanilla iced coffee..."
I was interrupted. "… sorry … up please … can't hear …" I literally growled, hoping they could hear that.
I leaned well out the window, now yelling with an edge of attitude. "I said I'll have a MEDIUM DECAF FRENCH VANILLA ICED COFFEE, LIGHT WITH MILK, AND TWO SWEET AND LOW and ..."
I was cut off again. "… that complete y … order?"
"No!" I shouted, exasperated. I knew I must have looked like a lunatic to the people behind me, the cars now backing up well around the corner of the building. "I'd like a BACON EGG AND CHEESE ON AN ENGLISH MUFFIN!"
"Drive … please."
As I rounded the corner toward the window, the customer ahead of me seemed to be having an issue. The window worker was leaning out. Bags and money were going the wrong way. "I'm sorry …" I heard the worker start to say, but the car had already sped off, tires spinning. Geesh. This place was really doing some excellent customer service. :: rolled eyes ::
When I got up to the window, the kid said, "A small iced tea?"
What the …?
"No, not even close," I told him dryly. I repeated my order. Yet again.
"Yeah, sorry, the intercom isn't working," he said. As if I didn't already know this. I let him know how irritating my visit thus far had been. "Can't they fix that thing? It's really annoying to the customer. I almost just drove off. At least put a sign on it that says it's out of order and just tell people to drive up and order." He knew I was ticked. He handed me back my card and receipt, offering a nonchalant "sorry, yeah, it's busted," and then disappeared.
Minutes passed. All I could do was sigh repeatedly and keep looking in my rear view mirror at the disgruntled faces behind me. Just as I thought about rapping on the window and telling him I wanted my money back, the kid reappeared with my drink and sandwich.
I know this situation all too well. If they're screwing up most things, they're screwing up everything. I sat right where I was, removed the straw wrapper, popped it through the coffee top and took a sip. As I thought. They'd only put one Sweet and Low. I handed it back through the window unceremoniously, with half-closed eyelids. "TWO Sweet and Low, please." He took it from me, uttering more apologies, as I unwrapped my sandwich, to be sure it was right. No bacon. I ground my teeth together. After all this, and they still couldn't get it right. No excuse. I'd be calling the number on the bag to report this place.
The kid came back with the coffee and I handed him the sandwich. "With bacon, please," I said in the same flat manner. One of the cars behind me zipped out of line and took off. Why did these people even have jobs here? Don't they have a manager? I thought.
At last, I got the sandwich back, checked it, and grinned mirthlessly at the final apology. Then I drove off. What a nightmare, for such a simple order!
TAKE TWO:
I went through the drive-thru at a coffee shop today. It was nearing 4:00PM and I hadn't eaten yet, so I decided to treat myself to an iced coffee and the "guilty pleasure" of a breakfast sandwich. Why not? I thought. I'd earned the extra calories having skipped breakfast. As I rolled my window down to order, a high-frequency squeal emitted from the order station. Yowzer! I instinctively winced and recoiled from the sound.
I wasn't sure what to do, so I waited a few more moments. Somewhere within the scrambling noise, I heard a voice. I figured they must be asking me what I wanted, so I placed my order: "Hi, could I have a medium decaf French vanilla iced coffee …"
I was interrupted. "… sorry … up please … can't hear …"
I spoke up a bit louder and repeated my order. The line behind me continued to grow. I felt bad for the workers, having to deal with a broken intercom that they clearly couldn't fix. That must be awful, to come to work for minimum wage and find that the equipment was on the fritz. They must have been hearing the feedback in their earpieces. And I'm sure most customers were less than kind about it. I felt genuinely sorry for them. Well, I'd do what I could to cheer them up.
I drove up to the window. Surprisingly, the kid who opened the window was still smiling. "A small iced tea?" he asked.
"Nope," I said smiling. "I had the sandwich and an iced coffee."
"Oh, OK. Yeah, I see it. Sorry, this machine's really horrible today."
"You know what, Craig?" I said, "You're handling it really well. Just keep smiling and everyone will get over it."
He laughed, eyes flashing. "Well, I hope that's true!" he said, clearly frazzled but happy for the light interaction.
I looked in my rear view mirror. The woman behind me looked really peeved.
Craig came back with coffee. I took a quick sip. Only one Sweet and Low. Oh well. For Pete's sake, I thought, we live in a country where we can order unnecessary luxury items like coffee while sitting in our cars. Not only coffee, but iced coffee, and specialized right down to the type of sweetener we want! It was definitely not that big a deal – certainly not worth making this kid's day any worse over. Plus, it got me out of my routine, if only in a small way.
Craig came back, handing out my sandwich. I said, "Hey, Craig, would you ring in the woman behind me, as well? She looks miffed. It might cheer her up a little."
He smiled. "Sure, no problem. She had the iced tea. That OK?"
"Yup," I said. Soon, I was on my way. I smiled thinking about the woman getting a little treat and hoped she'd be less irritable with Craig.
As I opened my sandwich and took a bite, I noticed that there was no bacon – just egg and cheese. I thought of Dibby and the special egg and cheese sandwiches she makes for me (though this one could not compare). Never bacon on hers, just egg and cheese. The thought somehow made it taste just fine.
*************
The basic details of these two scenes are the same. What's more, those details are true and happened to me today.
"Take Two," I'm happy to report, is how it really went down.
The only difference between these two "takes" is that one was me-focused and one was others-focused. Can you tell which was which?
Guess.