You Can’t Make Me

It might be the understatement of all understatements to acknowledge that I am a person who does not like to be told what to do. To be sure, I don’t think anyone likes to be forced into obedience, masochists aside, but being given a directive is guaranteed to send me into a rebellious fury. Put up a rule against and I will do everything in my power to do the exact opposite of what someone has forbidden me from doing, even if it is to my own detriment.

Case in point: I am currently in my friend Shaina’s bathroom, staring at one of those Home Goods quote aesthetic signs, you know, those wooden block platitudes in cringy cursive that tell us how to live life: “Kindness Matters!” “Life is short, Eat the Dessert” or my favorite, “Love Always Wins!”

Those signs, though, are child’s play compared to her most aggressive sign, the one that tries to bully me to “Wash Your Hands.” Naturally, I am determined to do the exact opposite. Does Shaina really think people in her house don’t know to wash their hands? Granted, she does have two small children who are frequently covered in lots of disgustingly unrecognizable forms of all that is smelly, but I highly doubt they are even allowed into the guest bathroom, the one with the high thread count towels that I know Shaina only bought because they were a “Gwyneth's Fave” on the Goop website.

I realize the statement I am making by NOT washing my hands will go unnoticed, and is kind of gross, but I feel irrational pleasure when I am about to put my grubby hand on one of Shaina’s crystal wineglasses that I know she painstakingly handwashed. I see the wineglasses neatly lined up in a row, face down, next to the not very subtle bottle of hand sanitizer. That her guests will feel manipulated into squirting onto their already washed hands.

My rejection of Shaina’s hand sanitizer will make an audacious public statement, much more provocative than my private eschewal of handwashing in her bathroom. I gather my courage and seize a glass, ready to fill it with a generous splash of overpriced Pinot. I pretend not to hear Shaina clearing her throat behind me, hoping something more important will draw her attention. My hopes are dashed when now is saying, “Um, Ebony?”

I innocently turn around and make eye contact. I want to see how serious she is about this whole hand sanitizer thing. My curiosity is answered when she asks me, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” as she casts her eyes toward the hand sanitizer.

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me!” I grab a napkin and use my other hand to reach into the bowl of nuts, scooping as many as will fit into my germ-infested hand.

Shaina looks horrified but her distaste for making a scene buys her silence. She doesn’t need to tell me my fate: I won’t be invited back to book club next month. Or any other month.

***

I start noticing the subtle rules and rituals I’ve accepted along the way, with no thought as to why I adhere to them. I come to understand that it is my fear of appearing crass, or futilely trying to escape judgement, that has led to my reluctant compliance. I am suddenly awakened to the exhaustion brought about by my anxiety-driven addiction to making sure I don’t break the rules, or God forbid, offend anyone.

I think back to the sanitizer rebellion I staged at Shaina’s house and allow myself to admit that l have zero regret. It was a freaking relief to get kicked out of book club! Although I am now kind of bored on Tuesday nights.

I am pondering this as I’m having brunch with three of my oldest friends. They know me better than anyone and I’m pretty sure there isn’t a bottle of hand sanitizer among us. We’ve been waiting for what feels like twenty minutes for our condescending server to bring us water, even after my friend nearly collapsed from her coughing fit. Granted, the overpriced bougie food was pretty good and the colors popped on my friend’s Insta reel, but it’s hard to stomach the $18 charge for a mimosa. So, we wait, and wait, trying to make our mimosas last until our water glasses get refilled.

Our server eventually returns and before we can ask for more water, he plops the bill down in front of us with the admonition, “Hi friends…just a reminder, there’s a 90-minute limit per table. And the gratuity is NOT included; for your convenience, I’ve circled the recommended amount below. TIA, appreciate you!"

I see the smiley face next to the circled 25% tip “suggestion” and nearly lose my shit. Sara, who probably knows me best, touches my arm in a pointless attempt to placate me. She correctly guesses that I’m about to unleash.

“Are you freaking kidding me? This entitled little trust funder thinks we should tip 25 percent after he treated us like gnats?”

“Well, they were really busy,” my ever-optimistic friend Angelica offers.

“Um, I saw him literally sit down at that table of hot guys and hang out for at least ten minutes,” my more cynical friend Jill mentions. Bless you, Jill.

“I don’t care what you guys do--I’m not giving this guy anything over 15 percent!” I announce. The horror!

I hear the collective gasp of my group, knowing my friend who used to be a server would die of mortification if anyone ever dared tip south of 20 percent.

She looks at me pleadingly before asking, “Ebony, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. I’m sick of being treated like shit and then having to feel bad for not over tipping.” I feel more righteous by the minute as I stand my ground.

I hear my friends murmuring, trying to balance their fear of embarrassment over acknowledging that our server was kind of a twit. Eventually Angelica offers to pay the bill, telling us we can Venmo her what we feel we owe. She eyes me pointedly and says, “Ebony, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

If our smug waiter hadn’t circled the tip amount and added a smiley face, I would have grudgingly tipped whatever the group decided. But he sealed his fate when he deigned to tell me what to do.

It takes me a few months before I realize our group hasn’t gone out to brunch for a while. A quick look at Instagram shows me the tradition continues; I didn't know until now that my invitation has been permanently rescinded.

***

I’m leaving the gym, halfway through the door when I see a group of women coming up behind me. I consider quickly passing through and pretending I don’t see them, or, if my rule following-self prevailed, patiently holding the door for them as if it is my sole purpose to make their day better. I must have been feeling benevolent as I soon found myself holding the door, even smiling pleasantly as they made their way through. They take their time, especially the spoiled princess who stops to laugh at something on her phone. Finally, they all make it through the door.

Not a single word of thanks from any of them. My moment of generosity dissipates, and you can probably guess what comes next.

“You’re welcome!” comes out slightly louder than I had intended. Oops.

One of the women turns around and looks at me with utter disgust. Her friend mirrors her expression and chides, “How rude! I can’t believe you just said that to us!”

I choose not to respond but can’t help overhearing one of the women say to her friend, “Some people are so entitled.”

It has been decided: it is no longer my societal obligation to hold the door for anyone else. If they have arms and legs that work, or even just one arm that works, they can open their own damn door.

***

I was at the grocery store, in a massive hurry, as usual. I didn’t want to be late for a new book club I joined, holding out hope that this one wouldn’t contain so many uptight rule followers. I had found the perfect premade charcuterie board and thought I could almost pull it off as handcrafted (the book club guidelines specified homemade, local organic food preferred whenever possible, smiley face). Aren’t you impressed with the easy breezy, laid-back book club I found?

I chose what looked like the shortest line and took a deep breath, vowing to be my best self for the rest of the evening. That is, until the person in front of me couldn’t get her digital coupon app to scan. Followed by the cashier not believing the birthdate she recited to justify the three jugs of generic vodka she was buying, which led to her pulling out what was probably a fake ID that the cashier contemplated for what felt like ten minutes. The cherry on top was when they needed to call the manager over to open the case for her to buy cigarettes. I might have a little too loudly said, “For the love of God! Why can’t you just vape like a normal person?” I clapped my hand over my mouth as I decidedly ended my short reign of best self-ness. I swear I heard the guy behind me laugh but when I turned around, he glared at me.

I waited in silence until it was my turn. I tried to make up for my earlier outburst by asking the checker how his day was going. His response was to raise his eyebrows at me. I avoided further drama until I opened my purse and hello karma, didn’t see my wallet. My stomach lurched as I frantically searched and realized my wallet was nowhere in the vicinity of my purse. I knew then that I had left it in my car, wedged between my seat and the door.

I could feel the penetrating stares of everyone behind me, hitting my back like tiny daggers, punishing me for my ugly outburst. I wish they could see that I didn’t wake up that morning planning to be a jerk. Despite trying to project the illusion of not caring what anyone thinks of me, I get worn down by the small ways I feel insignificant, underappreciated. It’s not that I think I’m better than anyone else, I just want to be accepted for who I am, without having to follow rules that make me feel like my preferences don’t matter. Was I always such a contrarian, or is this whole adulting thing gradually crushing my soul and making me a joyless cynic no one wants to be around?

I contemplated my next move, fully aware that I was now taking up everyone else’s precious time. I was about to offer a humble apology before slinking out of the store when the guy behind me spoke up, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

I must have misheard him. I sheepishly turned around and saw the credit card in his hand. I gulped, managing to squeak out, “You can’t actually mean that. I obviously don’t deserve anyone’s charity today.”

He smiled as he made his way toward the cashier. He handed over his credit card and turned to face me. “You look like you could use a friend.”

The world nearly tilted on its axis. I felt like I was in a movie where the villain has a grand epiphany that miraculously gives them a conscience. Or maybe I was in a romcom where the guy asks out the surly protagonist (that would be me), while the audience yells “No, she doesn’t deserve you!” at the screen. Yeah, I know, this guy was never going to ask me out. He was just being NICE. Ugh.

Was it possible that Shaina’s ridiculous “Kindness Matters” sign had just manifested, despite my abhorrent behavior? There can’t possibly be a reality where those stupid preachy signs are smarter than me.

I was drawn out of my reverie when I heard the cashier tell the guy that his credit card had been declined. The world once again made sense.