The too-cool customer

How can a relentless self-advocate be the same woman who can’t ask for the manager?

I am being punished by my nail salon.

Over the holidays, when the kids were home, I called to confirm the time for my gel manicure that afternoon. When the receptionist answered, she told me I had missed my appointment—it was the day before. They were waiting on me, and I never showed up. (They never called, either, but I guess I’m not allowed to play victim in this story.)

Profusely apologizing, I begged to be rescheduled with my regular manicurist. They squeezed me in to see her the next day, and I spent 80 minutes more apologizing, pacifying, and reassuring her it would never happen again. She didn’t exactly acknowledge or accept my remorse, but I figured that with a sizable tip, I’d done enough. I scheduled my next visit for right before our trip to the Bahamas, and I left.

Only when I returned two weeks later, the appointment wasn’t with her. Did I not specify? Did I have to? I’d been going to the same manicurist for five months. This time, they put me with someone who does pedicures, too—the B List—not a fine designer of gel manicure art! I felt a sweat come across my body as I asked whether she could handle the design I showed her on my phone. She said yes. And for two hours, I sat captive to her efforts as she painted, and wiped, trying again and again, all while my actual manicurist played on her phone five tables away. “Alright, I learned my lesson,” I thought, frustrated but compliant. This was my penance. The manicure began chipping off 72 hours later, just as we touched down for vacation.

We contracted COVID over said vacation, so I spent the next several weeks in hand purgatory, picking and staring and filing and stewing over how I got burned. I thought hard about what I’d say to her at my next appointment; I had to say something. Only when I returned, once again, my appointment wasn’t with her. It wasn’t there at all! I showed the receptionist the entry on my phone and she stared at me blankly. Did they erase me on purpose? Am I in time out forever? Was it a mistake? My neck felt cold. Say something, Heather! You do realize you’re paying to be here, right? RIGHT?!

“Is there anyone else who can see me?” I asked softly.

Pathetic. Once again.  

If you haven’t figured it out from reading this newsletter, I’m not a person you’d consider timid. As a corporate attorney, I negotiated many high-stakes settlements and regularly went toe-to-toe with adversaries, business partners, and my own managers over difficult conflicts. I became my own medical advocate through two pregnancies and a litany of health issues. I am an unyielding self-advocate in times when it matters most.

And yet, as a regular old customer, I am someone else. I am a meek receptacle of poor service. I am cool. Too cool. Chilled, in fact, from accomplishing virtually anything.

I’ve left blowout appointments with hair like an Eighties pageant girl. I’ve sat through meals without my appetizers and side dishes showing up. I’ve hung up on countless customer service reps, even after braving the initial gatekeeper to face “the manager” only to acquiesce to his first logical reasoning for whatever the issue was. Back when restaurants started reopening and were gravely understaffed, I saw a meme about how millennials will receive the worst service of their lives and tip 33% because the restaurant was struggling. It was a joke, but also, an illustration of the adult I’ve unwittingly become.

Once in a while, I trick myself into believing it’s because I’m nice. Except, I’m really not that nice. I am accommodating, for sure, and leave lots of leeway for people who I believe are doing the very best they can. I’m not ashamed of that. But there’s a difference between being gracious and being a soaking wet blanket, unable to do more than open an umbrella as someone dumps buckets of water onto my head.   

In these moments, if I was my own opponent, I would see myself coming from a million miles away. I apologize, both to them and for them, creating imaginary scenarios why the error or inconvenience took place. I stew and mumble in dissatisfaction to whomever is close by, making the issue theirs and bringing down the energy all around me (sorry to my husband). I explode, too, like my 7-year-old daughter, in a pointless tizzy of rage before fleeing a scene. I initiate debates without an ask—why even bother complaining if you don’t know what you want? And most of all, I give up. I give up easily. Sometimes, I give up before I even begin.

This is not who I am; but also, it is. Maybe I am burnt out from mediating and maneuvering, of looking for motives and the subtext behind every single interaction at work and the game of social Jenga that is life as a young parent. Maybe I’ve spent every ounce of mental capital I have on making tough calls in the gray times of the pandemic and serving up moral platitudes for the judgment police lurking in the wings. Maybe I’m exhausted from bartering with my kids.

I don’t want to fight with the Verizon guy. I’m too tired to confront the nail salon. The result is not worth what little inner peace I’d be sacrificing.

Well, at least, that’s the argument I’ve sold myself.

Are you two different people sometimes? Email me or drop in the comments: averagejoelle3@gmail.com.

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The little things

Eggcellent

There are few foods my whole family agrees upon, but my husband’s mom made him soft-boiled eggs as a kid, and one thing led to another and they took off in our house, too. We needed a solution to prevent rollage and found these adorable little egg plates on Amazon.

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Also

I read:

• Gen Z’s Distorted Sense of Selfie – The New York Times

• Fleishman is in trouble – and lots of dads will be, too unless expectations change – Salon

• Getting Shit Done Doesn’t Make You A Good Person – Every Shade of Grey

• The glories of dining out alone - Vox

• The Best (& Worst) Games Ever Featured on Bluey – Romper

I watched:

• Fleishman Is In Trouble and asked myself way too many questions about aging, identity, Judaism, gender biases in caregiving, and why Claire Danes is the greatest actress ever. I guess I’m suggesting you watch it. I think.

I tweeted:

• About my children’s expensive fruit habits. Seems I’m not alone.

I cooked:

• More Banza pizza and pasta, because this gluten-free girl wants her fix with more protein, more fiber, and less carbs. You can still get 15% off all on-site purchases with my code: OTR23.

• We’re also going to have a ‘lil giveaway! Here’s the deal: you know how I love collecting your tiny victories. None are too small! Email your wins to averagejoelle3@gmail.com before February 10 and you’ll be entered to win an assortment of delish Banza pizzas! [You must be a subscriber of Our Tiny Rebellions to enter. By entering, you consent that your win may be used in a future issue of the newsletter. Disclaimer disclaimer disclaimer.]

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Your wins

Charlie bought a Bark phone for her daughter. She feels much safer and comforted knowing she’ll be able to mature but will guardrails on.