I ordered coffee this weekend at a cafe where no less than 493 people were waiting for their drink. It was a mad house.

When a drink was ready, the barista would read the name written on the cup in some incomprehensible dialect (smile) and place it on the runway.

But instead of placing it name-facing-out so the gaggle of caffeine addicts could easily spot their drink, the name faced the barista.

This drove me nuts.

And in all of my don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover-osity, I immediately determined the following about the barista:

1. They make poor decisions
2. They would probably hand me a knife with the blade pointed toward me
3. They would probably hand me a loaded gun with the barrel pointed toward me
4. They probably have an underdeveloped sense of empathy

And with all these ridiculous assumptions running wild in my head, I thought about how my actions—the ones I don’t notice or intentionally project—speak for me without me realizing it.