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:
- They make poor decisions
- They would probably hand me a knife with the blade pointed toward me
- They would probably hand me a loaded gun with the barrel pointed toward me
- 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.