Regularly Regular
The bit parts we play in other people’s lives
I started this newsletter after I stopped going to my regular breakfast spot every Sunday because of the pandemic. I used to sit in the same spot at the same bar at the same restaurant and order the same thing from the same bartender every single Sunday. It was fantastic. I am a creature of habit and doing this was one of the best parts of my week.
Now, finding myself lucky enough to be vaccinated and finding my favorite spot unusually empty for a weekend morning, I decided to head back up there. I took up residence back in my old spot at the bar. Only, my bartender wasn’t there. Another of the many unfortunate side effects of the pandemic — turnover in restaurant staff.
The new bartender was different from the previous one in many ways. For one, she’s a woman and he was a man. She’s a good deal shorter than he was and moves with a frenetic energy and purpose that indicated to me that they were busier than their empty tables implied. He would get things done back behind the bar, sure, but pulled it off with a cool effortlessness. It made me feel like I was at his house, and he was doing me a quick favor making me my favorite Earl Grey tea latte with almond milk.
When he was there, I never had to order. This new bartender asked me, as I’m sure she does everyone else, what I wanted. I stopped myself before ordering the usual and seized the opportunity to be someone else. The double-edged sword of being a regular at a place is that, yes, your drink is made for you before you even ask. But what if you weren’t feeling that particular drink that morning? Your food order is placed before you even ask, but what if those eggs weren’t what you had in mind when walking in?
Heather, you say to me. In that case, you simply tell them that it is not what you wanted.
Wow, thank you for that salient advice. But here is the problem — I am a people pleaser. To a fault. It hurts. It’s destructive. I live in deep fear of disappointing anyone, even my bartender, by telling him that I didn’t want that order he so thoughtfully made for me.
But, this week, it was not him behind the bar. Though I was sad at first, I was also a bit relieved. The woman had no expectations of me. No preconceived notions, except maybe “Oh this lady really likes Dallas a lot” based on my Cowboys ball cap and SMU t-shirt.
I ordered an almond milk latte, rather than Earl Gray, and a veggie breakfast bowl in place of my former-usual order of bacon, eggs, and a biscuit. She nodded, took my order, and put it in like normal. Like I was just another customer. Like I was just anybody.
It was a relief.
I got my breakfast, and as I sat listening to an audio book, I turned to my left and saw my bartender. He was back, only he was on the front side of the bar working as a server/food runner. It felt odd that I could see the bottom half of his body. Though he had a mask on, I recognized it was him.
I looked down at my plate, realizing I had gone totally off the rails with my order. He would see it. He would know I am some faker, some imposter, that I wasn’t the person he thought he knew. Then I remembered — we’re all the star of our own sitcoms. To him, I’m just some guest-star that stopped appearing after last season.
My surprise cameo role this week was nothing more than that of a Featured Extra. The props in front of me were of no consequence to him. He probably hadn’t thought of me more than once or twice after I’d stopped coming around all those months ago.
We exchanged brief pleasantries, catching up on what had happened over the last few months. He told me he switched to part time at this place so he could work in food service for a worthy cause. I told him I got engaged and how the podcast was really thriving. He pulled out his phone to subscribe and promised to listen. (If you’re reading this — Hi! Hello! You are awesome!)
The dumb but awesome thing about self-imposed expectations is that they are self-imposed. You are at once your own captor and your own rescuer. There’s a great line in a song by The Eagles that I love. It came on the radio while I was driving this week. It goes:
So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains
And we never even know we have the key
Putting guardrails on yourself or your personality is a tricky thing to quit doing because how dare you? But the sooner you do it, the better off you are.
I got a new therapist this week on BetterHelp (Don’t forget to visit BetterHelp.com/sinister for 10% off your first month! /shameless plug/). My last therapist moved on to a different job where she will be caring for people on hospice, so I can’t really be too upset with her for leaving. After we said our goodbyes, I was able to look through some choices and get matched with a new person. This therapist is in her mid-60s, has been sober for 30 years, and has seen some shit. After just our first session, I am incredibly grateful I matched with her.
Our conversation flowed, and I told her about myself. I explained that I am a lawyer, but that I still dream about pursuing podcasting and writing and comedy full-time. I told her how guilty I feel that I went to law school and get to help individuals who desperately need it every day but how I still have this dream rattling around in my brain. I told her how I worry that if I ever decide to stop practicing law some day in the future, that everyone will judge me and think I am a bad and selfish person.
“You’ve got to serve your highest purpose,” she said. She didn’t say I had to do what everyone expected me to do or what I felt like I was obligated to do. She said the words “serve” and “purpose.” Inherent in that command is serve — to perform duties or services — and purpose — the reason for which something exists.
I have to perform the services for which I exist. We all do.
I get a lot of really nice DMs and emails asking me for advice. Every once in a while, it does me good to give a little advice to myself. Stop setting unrealistic expectations for yourself. Stop pretending that anybody gives a shit about what you do. Stop thinking you’re some life-altering character in the life-sitcoms of people you barely know. Write your own show. Direct it. Produce it. Be proud of it.
Yes, the metaphor I use for my life is a sitcom because I was raised on The Dick Van Dyke Show and Seinfeld. That’s just how my brain cranks.
Being in the café this week, back at my spot at the bar for the first time in a long time, daring to order something different, gave me a lot of anxiety at first. You’re an Earl Grey tea latte person, I told myself. It’s true — some days I am. But I can also be an almond milk latte person. I can be a bacon/eggs/biscuit person sometimes, and a veggie breakfast bowl person other times.
We all contain multitudes. I’m giving myself that grace now, the grace to say to the bartender or to the universe or to myself, “Sorry, I appreciate this, but I actually wanted something else instead.” I am giving myself permission to say that and not feel like I’m a bad person or a disappointment or like I am ruining anything. The truth is, for both of the bartenders — and pretty much every other person for that matter — I am nothing but a background character in their own sitcoms starring themselves. I’ve just got to make my own show, to serve my highest purpose, the best way I know how.
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