Before the coffee gets cold
(Real footage of me in a coffee shop)
Allow me to tell you a story from a Tuesday morning in sunny Brighton.
The coffee was too pale, she said; too cold- hadn’t she asked for it extra hot? She took up the waitress’ offer for it to be remade. She sat, sullen, arms-crossed, opposite me. Her accent indicated she wasn't local to the area and was clearly waiting to be impressed by this recommended coffee shop in a city she likely felt to be too loud. I felt myself to be protective of the lovely day I was having; I felt my table to be close to hers, as if the geography of our closeness would allow her mood to spill; spread; seep stain-like across from her table to mine. Deliberately, I re-established my focus onto the book I was reading (The Unbearable Lightness of Being).
When you eat or drink alone, you are more aware of others around you. You have an interest and a heightened observance in your surroundings, imbued with a self-consciousness you both like to pretend you don't notice, but also feel to be normal.
You eat more mindfully; more consciously, taking deliberate mouthfuls in between turning pages of your book. You can't hold down pages of the book and put your fork to yours mouth and cut the toast all at once, so everything happens more slowly.
You notice the relationship between others: the family opposite - the man who seemingly chose not to have his toastie toasted (odd) and their young child transfixed by the phone in front of him (sad). You notice your own judgements and reactions to the things you observe: “odd” and “sad”. You notice with an almost dissociated observance the way a single fleck of ash lands on your arm from a nearby cigarette, the smell both unpleasant and yet invitingly reminiscent of summer holidays in Europe. As the sun beats down upon your back (and you feel yourself annoyed by the use of expected metaphors) you take the time to look up the words “pruritan” (one I’ve never heard; too much like ‘puritan’) and “indelible” (one I always forget; too much like ‘inedible’) in the book you're reading.
When the new coffee arrives, the tourist is happier. Polite, even. She thanks the waitress in way that feels genuine. Was she remorseful, perhaps, at her bad behaviour? Or did I just want her to be remorseful?
I began to wonder if maybe I rejected in her what I rejected in myself: the ability to set boundaries with others and a possible confrontation. Was she so wrong to expect hot coffee?
And so, before my own coffee gets too cold, I set about writing and wondering if I should raise my expectations.
One of these days I'll set out to write an article I've been meaning to write for some time. I can't tell you what it's about though because more often than not it never gets written if I do that. Golly, how cryptic! Suffice to say, it has a lot to do with boundaries.
My therapist repeats to me, time and time again, that boundaries are there to protect me. But perhaps, more than that, boundaries are the way we delineate for ourselves how much we believe we are worth. Perhaps there is a boundary to be set for what we are choosing to expect from others. Do I need to raise my expectations? About what I can expect from the world? I fear I may be more often disappointed than I am from my current shrug-my-shoulders, brush-it-off way of doing things. I don't have the answer. People who stand up for what they deem to be acceptable (the expectation of hot coffee given its new-normal high price), often seem to be left feeling angry or disappointed or embittered. Instead, I take the road of passive acceptance at the way things are (coffee a little colder than I would like) and feel proud of my ability to be unaffected (an acceptance of things as they are). But what if in doing so I'm indirectly making a statement about my own worth? What if I'm worth hot coffee? What if, in elevating my expectations, I lift the bar on what I believe I'm worth? What if, instead of allowing people to treat me just as they see fit and I let them, under the cloak of humility and the yogic values of non-harming and non-attachment, I don't just brush it away and actually start considering this as something worth my time? Does my nihilism about an adult's ability to change how they think, or what they say, or how they choose to act, mean I shouldn't bother? Or perhaps, the outcome is irrelevant. Perhaps the action of defending my own self-worth is important, regardless of outcome. Perhaps I can learn to stand up for myself the way I would stand up for someone else.
Mindful moment: Start asking for what you deserve and defending your rightful expectation of what you hold important. Where do you sit on this spectrum? Are you confident in asking for what you deserve? Or do you avoid confrontation, perhaps at the expense of your own self-worth? Or perhaps you sit happily in between.
Have we met?
Welcome to the Community.
I'm Laura, a yoga teacher and NHS doctor. With this weekly newsletter I aim to help you incorporate mindful moments into your week. I want you to feel inspired, empowered and creative. I promise to always be authentic; to only include content that speaks to me and which, therefore, I hope will do the same for you.
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