The Glitch

I know you better than you think. 

I know you are a people pleaser. You’ve never once in your life sent a food order back in a restaurant for fear of upsetting someone. You practically step off the sidewalk to get out of the way for oncoming groups of people.   

You’ve lived life following the rules. Yet today, when your alarm rings, something feels different – there’s a tingling that a change is about to happen. 

Waiting in line at Starbucks in the morning rush, you watch the sea of anonymous faces and notice everyone else is getting their orders filled before yours.

The barista announces, “One tall pumpkin latte!” 

That article you read yesterday: 6 Rules to Stop Being a People Pleaser, said: Start small.

The barista shouts louder, “One tall pumpkin latte!” 

The sea of faces behind you looks uninterested; no one is coming for that latte. You’ve never had a ‘pumpkin latte’ before. A strange, sudden spark ignites in your chest. You step forward and take it.

A millisecond later, “Excuse me, has anyone seen a pumpkin latte?” a manly voice asks from behind.

Learn to say no, the guide said. Do you need to turn all the way around and look at him? No. And they didn’t deliver your drink on time, so it's their problem.

The barista locks eyes on you, pointing a finger at your cup. “That one.”

“This is my drink,” you say, your voice confident, then walk away.

“I’ll make another one, sir,” the barista mumbles to the man you had the confidence not to look at. A moment later, he calls out, “Tall regular coffee. That was yours. Their problems now. As you walk out the door, you sip the pumpkin latte; it tastes better than any drink you’ve ever had in your life before.

Stepping into the office ten minutes late, carrying someone else’s drink, feels like a Roman triumph. The inescapable anxiety that fogs your mornings is entirely gone. The department head gives you a predictable passive-aggressive sigh. You don't look down or offer a fake apology. Instead, you look him dead in the eye and nod. 

You worked 4 hours of overtime last week that they won't pay you for, and you intend to make up for it your own way.

The morning meeting is called in a conference room; you walk right past it, and take a seat in front of your computer. There’s an important message coming; you can feel it. Sure enough, an email from the department's most important customer, marked “urgent”, is waiting. You mouse over and click the trash can.

Indulge in self-care. The stop people-pleasing guide said: Indulge.

Screw it. Your fingers download the computer game you only play at home. Your secret habit. The chirps, beeps, and crescendoing trills of bonus levels reach your office neighbor; the look of panic on her face is more satisfying than any performance review you've ever received.

Two hours and seventeen levels later, the overly friendly marketing guy, Gary (why are guys like that always named Gary?) comes over and asks if you’d like to have lunch. He’s never asked before.

The article said: People respect you when you stop people-pleasing.

You realize you do have a ravenous appetite for something more visceral than the game you’ve been playing, and agree to lunch.

At TGI Fridays, Gary sits across the table, droning on about problems with his wife and kids and whether you have anything similar going on. 

You don’t listen. 

Instead, your eyes are locked on the perfectly seared, thick steak sitting in front of him. A mistaken impulse of yours ordered the Chicken Alfredo fifteen minutes ago. 

The normal you would smile and half-heartedly claim the chicken is “fine”. Today, you reach across the table, thrust your fork into a big piece of Gary's steak, and lift it up to see if it's adequately rare. Carrying it back like a stabbed buffalo, you deliver it to your mouth and savor its richness. Steak juice drips down your lip while Gary stares at you, mouth agape. 

He pulls his plate further away and spends the rest of lunch talking about football, mostly to himself like a crazy person. 

Gary is not a serious person. That famous line from Succession repeats in your head. You are a serious person.

When you get back to the office, luckily, your department head says you can take the afternoon off because a pest control crew is coming to spray. You get out fast before anyone stops you.

There’s a botanical garden downtown, one that you’ve never found time to visit. You walk over to it. While smelling the roses, you get a text message from Phil, your brother-in-law. 

He's undoubtedly been instructed to check up on you with “are you doing okay…" blah blah blah. You had sent a few aggressively worded text messages to family members that morning.

But it's something else.

[Phil] Hey bro! the game is tonight. wondering if you could spare fifty bucks.

He doesn't clarify if the fifty is to buy tickets or to gamble, and you don’t ask. He's been ‘calling in favors’ since the time he gave you front-row seats seven years ago.

Instead of passively-aggressively pretending you don’t see his message until he stops texting because he got the money from someone else, you call him.

“A voice call! How’s it going, buddy?”

The article said to be think about where your people-pleasing tendencies come from. They mostly come from fear. Especially fear of rejection.

“How much money do you need to–” 

“Just fifty bucks,” Phil interrupts you, as always. “No biggie.”

“ How much money do you need to never bother me again?

“To never…?“ There’s a long, long pause. “Five thousand.”

“I agree,” you declare. “I’m sending an Venmo now.” 

Don’t explain, don’t apologize.

You hang up before he can answer, feeling victorious, and send him the money.

Walking down the street, a bounce in your step and utter confidence in your gaze, you notice you scare people. Strangers look away from your piercing assessment; you can see right through them. A dark thought hardens in your mind: why have I always looked away? Years of politeness and people-pleasing got you nothing but a pat on the back.

You need your car. To feel truly powerful, you need a car. It's parked back at the commuter lot in Greensbury.

Swiping into the commuter train station, you see the platform for the northern line is deserted at 2pm. When the train screeches to a halt, you step into an empty metro car, except for one person. A young woman sits at the far end, staring into her phone, surrounded by dozens of vacant yellow seats. 

Express yourself. Another tip from the stop people-pleasing guide.

The old you would have walked to the opposite end of the train to maximize your distance. Today, you walk straight down the center aisle, her eyes catching you in her peripheral vision as you approach. 

You sit next to her, your shoulder practically brushing hers in the cavernous, empty car. You turn your head, look at her eyes, now studying yours, and smile. "Don't worry," you whisper over the roar of the train. "I used to be invisible too."

She doesn’t look afraid. Instead, she pulls out a wireless earbud, blinks, and says, "Sorry, what? My noise-cancellation was on."

You repeat your line in an awkward voice over the rattle of the train. 

She lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, rolls her eyes, a flash of icy disgust showing before she stands up and walks to the next carriage and sits down next to another woman.

Some people just don’t want to hear the truth.

Alighting at Greensbury, you walk into the station convenience store. You’ve been there a million times, and they don’t even know your name. You decide to redraw the boundaries on your previously one-way relationship.

“I’ve been coming here for years and you treat me like a stranger. Can I have a pack of gum? One pack for free... for all the business I’ve given you over the years.”

The store manager appears. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asks, stepping into your personal space. “If there is, I need to call the police.”

You look at him. This man clearly thinks he has the right to interfere in other people's business. His thick groomed moustache annoys you. That moustache represents everything boring and small-minded about the world.

“Yes, there is a problem,” you say, flashing a smile. “We need to start having a two-way relationship.” You argue why they owe you a pack of gum.

While you are arguing, the glass entrance door jingles, and a heavy-set police officer steps inside. The moustached guy points toward you.

Don’t let others control the situation.

“Hi there. What’s your name?” you ask the police officer.

“Mike,” he grunts. “And is there a problem here?”

“Ask him.” You point toward the store manager. “He won’t even give me one pack of gum. And Mike?” saying his name gives you authority. “Doesn’t his mustache bother you?”

Mike studies the manager’s moustache, then turns his full attention back to you.

“I’m going to have to ask you to put your hands behind your back…”

Inhumanly strong arms grab your wrists, twisting them behind you shoulders like your older brother used to do when you were six. It's hopeless to fight back. You feel the handcuffs dig deep into your skin. It hurts, but the pain is sharp and real. 

The guide said: Improve your self-esteem.

You can handle this.

“This doesn’t bother me, Mike. I am stronger now.” 

Mike drives you to the police station, fills out paperwork, and marches you down a grey cinder block hallway.

As he closes the bars of your prison cell, the rattles echo through the building. You sit down on a hard bench, look at the stone walls, and smile.

Starting today, you will begin living life on your own terms.