Do You Like Me?

The trap of wanting to be liked.

My day begins with a visit to the mean barista.

He’s dressed in his typical uniform: NPR hat, art nonprofit t-shirt worn beneath an open flannel. I’d wager there’s a New Yorker tote stashed somewhere behind the counter. His face resembles that emoji composed entirely of straight lines, mouth a perpetually unamused dash, dismissing me on sight.

As his glare descends, decades of societal programming seep from my pores as I find myself growing friendlier to compensate for his lack of warmth. Kill ‘em with kindness, the saying goes, though I suspect the one it’s killing is me.

His answer to everything is a bored “of course.”

“May I have a banana bread?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you!”
“Of course.”  

At the end of this interaction, I am left with a thought so ridiculous I’m going to present it as such before you have a chance to think it: Why doesn’t he like me?

My rational side knows the barista’s demeanor has nothing to do with me. He’s probably been awake since 5:00 A.M. Maybe a slew of rude custome…