Hey everyone, it’s Tina. Welcome back to another installment of Stories from Tina. Today, grab your favorite beverage, get comfortable, and let’s dive into a topic that has been living rent-free in my head all week.
I had a realization recently that sparked a bit of an existential crisis—or maybe just a regular, everyday eye-roll. It all boils down to this: I really dislike bad manners. Specifically, I am baffled by how incredibly difficult it seems for fully grown, tax-paying, mortgage-holding adults to utter three simple phrases: Please, Thank You, and Excuse Me. We literally get taught these concepts when we are knee-high and eating paste. So, where do they go? Is there a magical threshold in adulthood where paying your utility bill somehow uninstalls the “basic human decency” software from your brain? Let’s talk about it.
Think back to being a kid. If you wanted a juice box, what did you have to say?
• “I want juice!” (Result: No juice, stern look from mom).
• “Juice, please.” (Result: Sweet, sugary victory).
We were conditioned to understand that the “magic words” were the key to unlocking the universe. We sang songs about them. We watched purple dinosaurs on TV preach about them. We were literally denied snacks, toys, and bathroom breaks until we squeezed out a “please.”
Yet, cut to twenty or thirty years later, and the same people who were rigorously trained in the art of the polite request are out in the wild acting like feral cats.
Let’s set the scene. You’re in the grocery store. It’s Tuesday evening, you just want to grab some pasta sauce and go home to watch TV in your sweatpants. You turn down Aisle 4, and there it is: The Blockade. Someone has parked their cart diagonally across the aisle while they intently study the nutritional label on a jar of marinara like they’re cramming for the bar exam.
You approach. You wait a polite three seconds. Nothing.
So, you say it. The forbidden phrase.
“Excuse me.”
You’d think you just asked them for their social security number. The dramatic sigh, the aggressive cart-yank, the glare that screams, “How dare you exist in the same dimensional plane as my grocery run?” Whatever happened to a simple, “Oh, my bad! Go right ahead”?
Then there’s the morning coffee run. I was in line behind a guy in a very sharp suit the other day. When he got to the register, the barista offered a bright, cheerful, “Good morning! What can I get started for you?”
The guy didn’t even look up from his phone. He just barked, “Venti black drip. Room for milk.”
No “Good morning.” No “I’ll have a…” No “Please.”
When the barista handed him the coffee, he just grabbed it and walked out. Crickets. It takes exactly zero extra calories to add a “thank you” to the end of a transaction. I started wondering if maybe he was on a strict syllable diet for the day and had already hit his quota.
This one might be my biggest pet peeve. You’re walking into a building, and someone is a few paces behind you. Because you are a functional member of society, you pause, extend your arm, and hold the heavy glass door open for them.
They glide through the opening like British royalty entering a gala, completely avoiding eye contact, and march off into the distance in absolute silence.
I usually end up quietly whispering, “You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” to the empty air. Am I petty? Maybe a little. But is it so hard to just offer a quick head nod and a “thanks”?
I have a working theory that adulthood is just so exhausting that our brains start shedding non-essential functions to conserve energy, and unfortunately, basic etiquette gets tossed out right alongside “how to do long division” and “the state capitals.”
But honestly, the world is stressful enough. We are all tired, we all have places to be, and we are all just trying to make it to Friday. A little bit of politeness acts like social WD-40—it just makes everything run a little smoother and squeak a little less.
So, this is my official plea to the universe: Let’s bring back the magic words. Next time you’re at the store, the coffee shop, or walking through a door, channel your inner four-year-old. Say please. Say thank you. Say excuse me. I promise it won’t hurt, and you might just make someone’s day a tiny bit brighter.
Until next time,
Tina