I’m not a fighter. That’s why it’s weird that I woke up this morning from a vivid dream in which I was yelling at the staff of a coffee shop because they served me a $5 latte when I ordered a large black coffee. For the record, I would never yell at the staff of a coffee shop.
I also would never drink the latte — I don’t even know what a latte is exactly — but I wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum over it. Maybe the dream was sparked by a recent incident with a server. I got myself into a passive-aggressive fight with her.
Here’s the thing — a group of us went to lunch and the person beside me and I ordered the same thing — a “summer salad.” When our salads arrived, we poked at the leafy bowls and we turned and asked one another, “Does yours have dressing?” We investigated each other’s bowls to get our facts straight before pointing out the blatant nudity of our salads to our server. We asked a question, but we felt we knew the answer.
“Is the dressing already on this?” Our server assured us it was pre-dressed. She was confident. OK, we thought.
Maybe it needs to be mixed around. We poked and stirred. Is this gaslighting? Because those salads were definitely undressed.
When our server came by again, we asked for dressing. “Oh, it’s on there already,” she said. She turned to scoot away, and we had to quickly give her a: “No.
There is no dressing on it.” “Oh. OK.
I’ll get you some more,” she said. She darted off before I could say, .
