Make It Cool To Care

“Make it cool to care.”

I’m a few hours into the audiobook binge listen of Unreasonable Hospitality by Will G.

Fire recommendation from Brent Beshore in his firm’s must get email newsletter.

Anyone in a service business needs to rush to Amazon or Audible for this. And hint, if we deal with humans, we’re all in the service business.

Long, run-on sentence alert…

In an age of quiet quitting, withholding your true and best parts, understandably distrusting leaders and corporations, and wondering if the void of soul environment you’re in gives one shit, let alone two, about your contribution to humanity…

It’s beautiful and unexpected and a highly promotable offense to care.

More than you’re asked.

More than you’re paid to do.

More than feels comfortable.

I had a two-day caper to Orlando in the middle of the travel debacle last week. To watch one of our daughters play in a high school hoops tournament.

The airport was FLOODED with anger, anxiety, and blame.

I ordered a black coffee and a bowl of oatmeal from Starbucks (I’m officially my dad).

The coffee came back to me instantly.

But the oatmeal…

Took forever.

I felt the urge to get snippy because that’s all that was around me, and that instinct is certainly within me.

But somehow, I just waited.

I was by myself, had plenty of time before boarding (for once), and wasn’t in a hurry (even though it felt like I should be).

All of a sudden, a dude from the back by the little microwave oven things came rolling out with a tray of sandwiches that were clearly ahead of my oatmeal.

He had at least a dozen of them.

This entire time, the sandwich waiters were blowing up the poor girl on the espresso machine.

She could have done a million things including ignore them, get shitty back, or say “that’s not my problem.”

But instead, she cared.

She kept reassuring, she kept smiling, she kept saying “thanks for being patient, we’ll have it out soon”.

Eventually, that same fella from the back brought my old man oatmeal.

She looked up from her espresso steam, and said “Happy Holidays, thanks for being patient, see you next time.”

I had a measly $7 in my pocket, and slid it her way.

“Thanks for caring and enduring this craziness,” I said.

“Oh my god, thank you,” she said and smiled.

I’m not a hero for tipping her less than what my order was.

She deserved a lot more than that for enduring the BS that I felt like giving her, and many more did give her.

She’s the hero for stepping into the dark energy around her, seeing the abyss, and shining a huge, bright, caring light into it.

She made it really cool to care.

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