Dear Mr. Manager

It happened, you guys. I’m a woman in my thirties.  I can’t even say that I am just thirty.  I am actually IN my thirties.  It seems like only yesterday that I was the one bragging to my coworkers that “I wasn’t even BORN when that happened!” In my early twenties, I dated a guy in his early thirties and as creepy as it was to point it out, I was CONSTANTLY reminding him that when he was at his prom, I was still playing tag on the playground.  What can I say, I like making people uncomfortable.  But now, the shoe is on the other foot.  In my last job, I was surrounded by coworkers who were born in 1993.  When they talked about 9/11, it usually started with “well, our fifth grade teacher turned on the TV…” And these people can legally drink now.  And vote.

There are many ways that I express my new status as a Woman in My Thirties, such as buying a responsible car for the growing fam (an SUV, not a Van, because I’m a cool mom), or generally giving up on trying to look presentable during weekend days.  But the tell-tale sign of my new position in life is that I have actually started expressing my discontent with service directly to a manager.  Yeah.  I know.  I’m that person now.  Now, it’s not full-blown “I need to speak with your supervisor” behavior, but check back with me on that in a few months.  Right now, I am in the more passive-aggressive phase of complaining.

It started with a trip to Sprouts when I was pregnant with Little Man.  Austin passed a law a few years ago that banned plastic bags at groceries and retailers throughout the city.  Now, you have to bring reusable bags wherever you go. It’s great!  Unfortunately, I did start noticing one side effect to this law: there is this unspoken rule that if you bring your own bag, you should bag your own groceries.  Sometimes, a teenager will show up at the last minute to help, but a lot of times, its just you, your bags, and a busy cashier that looks at you like “these groceries aren’t going to just pack themselves.”  This was my experience at Sprouts one Sunday morning as I was eight months pregnant  and with probably more groceries than my OB/GYN would be comfortable with me carrying.  I felt the urge to help out, because I am a lady and we must always accommodate, but I put my hand on my belly to stress the fact that I needed help and nervously watched as groceries piled up.  The total came up on the screen, I swiped my card, and the groceries remained.  She gave me my receipt and I moved out of the line, but wouldn’t touch my groceries or the unused bags.  THEN, she actually started RINGING UP THE NEXT PERSON IN LINE!  I finally give in, sigh loudly, and clumsily put my groceries in the bag.  Where do the eggs go? On the bottom?  Oh no!  I have to repack this because I don’t know what I’m doing because THIS IS NOT MY JOB!  Finally, she says “One moment” to the grocer behind me and finally pitches in.  She moves the bags to the end of the counter harder than she needed to and got on with the next customer.  I was so appalled.  What happened to my neighborhood farmers market!?! How could she expect me to do her job?  I slowly pushed the cart out of the store, just trying to make eye contact with someone who witnessed this exchange.  I guess I needed some sort of approval that I had the right to complain.  But it was Sunday, and these people just want to go on with their lives.

This bothered me for a long time.  Why didn’t I just say “excuse me, but I need you to help me with these bags”? I have the right to say that as a paying customer.  Why didn’t I go to a manager and say “are customers supposed to bag their own groceries because THAT woman just made me do it”?  Now, the second statement is much more aggressive, but I guarantee someone would have done that to me.  I decided that I needed to stop being so polite just for the sake of other people.  Step 1: stop staying sorry for things that are not my fault.  Oh, you’re holding the door open for me even though I am clearly 10 to 15 seconds away from the door?  Old me would have started fake running and said “agh! Sorry!”  New me? Keep at my pace, smile and say “thank you.”  Step 2: No more exclamation points in emails, especially to male counterparts or managers.  Old me? “Could you review this document when you have a chance?  Thanks!”  New Me? “Attached is the necessary paperwork” or “Thank you for your time today.” The period is so masculine and powerful (IRONICALLY).

And now, Step 3:  You asked me how my service was?  I am going to tell you how my service was.  Luckily for most food related incidents, I will pretty much eat anything without complaint, so the “how was the food” question will likely be favorable.  But if the SERVICE is lacking, I will let you know.  “Ma’am, when you come back, we need our checks.”  “No, we haven’t been seen yet and we have actually been here for over five minutes.”  “Actually, since I have a kid in a stroller, I need the family dressing room, not him.  Can we switch spots, please?”  That last one happened at an Old Navy and logistically, it just makes sense.  Its like cutting off someone in a wheelchair to use the handicap stall.

So, when Favor, the new App that boasts food delivery from anywhere to anywhere, emailed me to ask them why I signed up for their service but haven’t used it yet, I had no problem sending this email:

(For the record, I did take out the Mexican part before I sent it, but you look at their delivery map and tell me that I’m wrong.)

I did get a response relatively quickly but not so quick that it was an auto-response.  It was likely from a twenty-something working in IT support as their first job out of school.  “Check out this email from some old lady” they probably said.

Whatever, kid.  At least I was in college when 9/11 happened.