Happy & Healthy

‘ WHAT DO YOU SAY THEN?’

I think I'm too polite

The line behind me grew by the second. I really just wanted to refuel for a moment, but at the checkout it went spectacularly wrong (seriously). Whether I had a card. No ma'am, I hate loyalty cards (of course I didn't say that). I waved my debit card a bit weakly and the lady listed the life-size benefits of the card in staccato. I mean, my existence was worth nothing from now on if I didn't grab that thing. I felt the collective anger in my back and I snatched the magic card from the counter as quickly as I could. That thing has been haunting me ever since, because the ad for that thing is currently on the radio.

My problem? I think I'm too polite. That lady was doing her damned best to let me, as a loyal customer with a card, leave the gas station, and then I'm lost. Yes, I can explain that I'm quite a slacker when it comes to refueling (I refuel where they want me). But at half past seven in the morning on one cup of coffee, I couldn't bring myself to crush her hopes. By the way, I have a trick with street vendors. I stubbornly look past them; if you make eye contact, you'll be signing a crazy contract in no time. And if such a popular thing dares to start chattering, I immediately shout that I already have that newspaper, that I've already given money to the good cause, and that I'm intensely blissful with my hello-fresh package every week. Our local street vendor therefore thinks I have a subscription to the Telegraaf, BNdeStem, Trouw, NRC.Next, De Volkskrant, and eat kilos of vegetables. But only the last one lands daily on my doormat, and the vegetables come from the farmer. I'm also always somewhat relieved when he asks if I want a Volkskrant. Secretly, I think he sees through me.

“My problem? I think I'm too polite.”

But that politeness runs deep. In a kind of against-older-people-you-say-you sort of deep. By the way, you also let them finish speaking. And if you have a question, it’s only complete with a please or thank you. ‘What do you say then?‘, was a mantra in my youth. You let someone do their lament, even if you're mentally writing a shopping list. You don't touch that last cookie, hell no. And exactly that etiquette rooted me to the ground with the teacher at the gas station. Just like with the jerk from the phone company (I now know how to brush that off) and the, slightly more forceful, girl at that sample sale.

So there you are… Chronically late, without a sample-sale score or cookie, but with a miraculous loyalty card and a complicated switching arrangement to the cheapest energy supplier. And let's not forget an über-happy gas station lady, that at least is true.