My name is no
Everybody knows me at my local Starbucks. The morning crew, especially: the two Joshes, Shawn (female, since I don’t know any males who are that sweet or sane), Mary, Linda and the guy who won’t ever wear a name tag.
Shawn always greets me first. By name. Every time.
I never use anyone’s names. Chalk that up to working at Kaufmann’s through college and being required to call customers by name. It freaked most of them out.
[And I might or might not have borrowed Melissa’s name tag when we weren’t on the same shift, to conceal my own identity from time to time.]
Today Shawn called out “Hi Goddess!” even though she was on another register and Mary was helping me today.
And I said, “Hi Shawn!” back — but I totally stumbled saying her name.
Could be because that name is associated with people on par with Donald Trump’s heroes. (Saddam Hussein being the latest he’s lauding.) But it’s more that I don’t WANT people to know how much attention I pay.
It’s a theme through my life. I don’t want them to know what’s in my head. I don’t miss a trick. I really don’t. And if I do, I’m not telling. 🙂
I just wonder why, at age 42 now, I still can’t admit that I know exactly who you are and what’s going on and make you feel special, rather than just trying to fade into the crowd.
It also sort of bums me out that I can be treated like a rock star at Starbucks, but not by my shithead landlord and whichever bitch is sucking him off today, or anywhere else for that matter where I do think I outshine most.
But that’s an issue for another day, I suppose.
Anyway, I need to get better about showing how fabulous I am, rather than praying nobody calls on me during meetings or in line at my favorite coffee joint.