Regular

The gang at my Starbucks no longer have to ask for my order in the morning. When they see me come in, they just start preparing my coffee right away. This is lovely and touching and it makes me feel acknowledged and imparts a sense of belonging and so forth. The thing of it is, though, is that they have my order wrong. I prefer a grande, non-fat, one-Splenda misto, you see, and they leave out the Splenda. I can put it in myself, of course, but it doesn't blend in as well when you empty the Splenda packet onto the top of the beverage, which is why I ask the barristas to do it, because they empty the packet in your cup before pouring the coffee--except that they don't, because they've forgotten the way I like it because they've stopped asking. And now I guess I have to go on drinking slightly unsatisfactory coffee every day for the rest of my life because I don't want to make them feel bad and thus risk losing my hard-won sense of belonging--a fear stemming, presumably, from the fact that I was an unpopular teen who had trouble making friends.

I am open to any suggestions for ways out of this pickle, provided the plan of action doesn't require asserting myself.

ELSEWHERE:
My review of City Lit Theater's The Copperhead is in this week's Time Out Chicago.