Please Like This Post

on 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 peeking out beneath an open flannel. A tome rests, face-down, on the counter. I’d wager there’s a New Yorker tote stashed just outside the frame. His face resembles that emoji composed entirely of straight lines, a series of unamused dashes dismissing me on sight.

As his glare descends, decades of societal programming seep from my pores as I grow 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 label it as such before you can 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. Perhaps a slew of rude customers soured his mood. Maybe he had a difficult life, or was over-indulged and now moves through the world with a petulant air. Maybe he’s worried — about his finances, his grad school finals, the health of a loved one. Maybe this is just his way. Whatever it is, it’s none of my business.

Still. I am bothered.

“I’m going to write about this!” I say, through a mouthful of banana bread, which is more than worth the side of attitude it came with. My partner informs me that “angsty Brooklyn barista” is a cliché. Besides, what can I possibly say about this person I do not know, whose existence I’ve reduced to a caricature?

But it isn’t about the barista. It’s about me, particularly the part of me that wants to please. The space that yearns to be filled with niceties and pleasantries and cheap validation.

The part that wants to be liked.

“Of course.”

It is a truth universally acknowledged that other people’s reactions often say more about them than they do about us.

And while we may understand this on a rational level, while we may accept that we are not responsible for other people’s feelings nor behavior, it is only human to sometimes take things personally.

We’re like little chemistry experiments, reacting everywhere we go. On the bus, at the gas station, in the grocery store. Add one compliment, a friendly smile, a rude gesture, a mean comment, and poof! Mood altered. Sometimes for the better. And sometimes…not.

When I was younger, I often approached the world like a one-way transaction, in which my role was to impress or otherwise appeal to the other person. I think back on dates, job interviews, and dinner party conversations where I’d find myself seated across the table from someone whose company I didn’t necessarily enjoy, wondering if they liked me.

It would take years to realize that I got to have an opinion. That there were (at least) two ingredients in this experiment, and our chemistry was the product of them both.

likable (adj.) – pleasant, friendly, and easy to like

“Like” is one of my least favorite words in the English language, right up there with “nice.” From a pure linguistic perspective, they’re tepid, passive terms. There is usually a more descriptive option.

To “like” something means it falls somewhere between “adore” and “tolerate.” We don’t love it; we like it. It’s fine.

“Like” is the griege of feelings, the meh of opinions.

Being liked is not the same as being respected, valued, or understood. To be liked hardly scratches the surface. And yet, it’s often presented as something to aspire to.

A quick search uncovers article after article for “how to be more likable;” “the secrets of highly likable people;” “how to be the most likable person in the room.” Each one reads like a playbook in subtle manipulation. But the more I consider it — as well as the other qualities on offer — the more I wonder, why is this a goal?

When we talk about a “likable” character — in literature or in life — what do we really mean? A person we relate to, perhaps. Someone we can root for. Someone whose company we’d like to keep.

If you were to ask me about the most likable people I’ve encountered in my life, I would describe a cast of characters who are quite different on paper, but share certain aspects of their humanity. They aren’t necessarily charismatic (though some of them are), but they are, invariably, interested. Genuine. Curious. Encouraging.

Each one moves through the world in their own way. But in all cases, they don’t take great care to appear too perfect. They’re not afraid to show their cracks. When they ask questions, you get the sense they’re asking not out of obligation, but because they genuinely wish to know the answer. They bring their full humanity to whatever they do.

In short, they care.

In America, “likability” is considered a non-negotiable quality for those seeking public office, something pundits attempt to measure and track. But it is ultimately intangible, not to mention subjective. How is one meant to acquire something that no one can actually define? One might be deemed likable because they’re charismatic, steadfast, kind. Because they live in accordance with their values, because they have a point of view. Because they mirror us, or inspire us, or give us hope.

Ironically, the people we most admire, in popular culture and throughout history, are not always the most likable bunch. They may be polarizing figures — controversial, anachronistic, misunderstood. I’d posit part of what makes them so admirable is that their aim isn’t on public perception, but something greater.

For nearly forty years since Sally Field accepted the best actress Oscar for Places in the Heart, people have quoted (and ridiculed) “You like me! You really like me!” But she never said it. The actual quote: “I haven’t had an orthodox career, and I’ve wanted more than anything to have your respect. This time I feel it. And I can’t deny the fact that you like me. Right now, you like me!”

When you share things with the world, it’s hard not to worry about being liked. For one thing, most platforms come equipped with their version of a like button. A “like” is a vote of confidence. An easy compliment. A teeny tiny thank you note. A reflex. A quantifiable popularity barometer providing a very real dopamine hit.

Yet, it seems that what we’re after is something more profound. Something simpler, more inherent. To be seen, known, understood.

To matter.

What I’m saying is: we deserve more than being liked.

A “like” is conditional. It promises nothing. It’s a preference, a passing fancy. As a goal, it’s a moving target, a mirage, a carrot leading us astray.

The truth is, we can worry all we want about being likable, but in many ways, it’s out of our control. So our energy is better spent elsewhere.

The better question is, do you like it? Do you like the date, the art, the message? Do you like what you’ve just posted, shared, said, created?

Easier said than practiced, but maybe that’s all that matters.

I like doughnuts.
I like meandering walks.
I like wearing the same T-shirt over and over again.
I like espresso — enough to brave a visit to the mean barista.

When it comes to people, my feelings are a lot more complicated. So is my understanding.

I doubt this is the last time I’ll wonder why someone does or doesn’t “like” me. But I’ll try my best to remember that we humans are a nuanced lot, and we owe each other more than this.

Including and especially ourselves.

Despite everything I just said, please feel free to like this post.

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P.S. In the months after this post originally ran, the mean barista morphed into a remarkably chatty one. (Or did I change? As with all dynamics, it was probably a bit of both.) We now have a friendly rapport, trading stories, life updates, and book recommendations like old friends. It just goes to show, sometimes first (and second, and thirtieth) impressions can be misleading.

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Card of the Week

Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.

Fountain Tarot, by Jason Gruhl, Jonathan Saiz, and Andi Todaro

In over 150 weeks of card readings, this is the first appearance by the Knight of Pentacles (sometimes called the Knight of Coins).

It feels like a sign that something entirely new is afoot.

This week’s message is about surveying what lies before us, and looking before we leap. But not from a place of caution. From a point of possibility.

I’m currenly re-reading Emily and Amelia Nagoski’s wonderful and helpful book, Burnout.

In the introduction, they cite a study where research participants were asked to complete a simple maze on a piece of paper. One group received a maze with a picture of cheese at the end, while the other received the exact same maze, albeit with the image of a cartoon owl flying above.

The cheese group performed better than the owl group. Participants completed more mazes more quickly when their minds were fueled by a reward (cartoon cheese) versus a threat (cartoon owl).

Life is much the same. When we have something to move toward — a goal, an aim, a purpose — things just work better.

Moving to get away from something (while necessary at times) is not as effective. It’s akin to typing “away from here” into the GPS and expecting it to give us directions. When we frame it that way, it sounds ridiculous. And yet, this is how many of us carry out our days.

The iconic Smith-Waite deck, with art by Pamela Colman Smith

The Knight of Pentacles wants us to proceed with purpose.

From their perch upon a bluff, the knight surveys the landscape, taking stock of possibilities, determining where they’d like to go and what they’d like to do.

On the surface, this card looks calm, placid, purposeful…and dare I say, a bit dull. Unlike the other knights of the tarot, who can be seen charging ahead at full force, caution be damned, the energy behind this one is decidedly grounded.

But wait — isn’t that refreshing?

In a world that’s constantly assaulting us with ads and prompts and to-do’s, where it’s nearly impossible to get through a day without at least a dozen suggestions of ways to strive or change or “improve,” how lovely it is to see someone modeling such a thoughtful approach.

There’s no hurry, this week’s message seems to whisper. What would you like to try? What would you like to see? How would you like to go?

Instead of haphazardly launching into the maze because everyone else is doing it and we fear being left behind to wither in a pit of FOMO, might it be worth pausing until we have a glimpse of the proverbial cheese — our proverbial cheese?

Because then we can plug “cheese” into our internal GPS and allow it to guide our thoughts and actions.

Because then we can say no to everything that is decidedly not-cheese.

Because having a bigger why gives us clarity and passion and purpose. It gives us direction and motivation. It gives us hope.

And hope is kind of everything.