Yesterday Eric and I took our niece to Claire’s to pick out a bunch of jewelry and accessories for her birthday. I went to the register to pay, and the cashier asked for my email. I immediately gave it to him. Eric rolled his eyes.
Eric: “Now you’re just going to just get a bunch of emails from Claire’s every day.”
Me (muttering through a fake smile): “That’s fine, I’ll unsubscribe later.”
Eric: “Why don’t you just not give him your email?”
BECAUSE, ERIC. I WOULD RATHER RECEIVE 57 DAILY EMAILS FROM CLAIRE’S UNTIL THE DAY I DIE THAN PARTICIPATE IN A POTENTIALLY AWKWARD EXCHANGE WITH THE CASHIER WHO IS JUST TRYING TO DO HIS JOB.
As soon as this thought went through my head, though, I realized how introvert-insane it was, and I was pretty ashamed. So when the cashier then asked for my phone number, I decided to not be as forthcoming.
Me: “Do you really need my phone number?”
Cashier: “Yes, to complete it.”
I had no idea what the ‘it’ was that the cashier needed to complete. He could not have been more purposefully vague. Was the “it” my purchase? A registration to receive Claire’s discounts? A lifetime subscription to never-ending texts with no opt-out option? Approval to let them test their products on my current and any future unborn children? Admission to a Pentecostal cult?
It couldn’t be possible that this children’s jewelry store REQUIRED your phone number to make a purchase. That would be nuts. And while a clogged inbox doesn’t really bother me, constant promotional texts softly threaten my will to live, so this is where I needed to draw the line. This was my clear-cut opportunity to just say no, and not be such a conflict-averse pushover of a human.
Eric looked at me. I looked at Eric. Eric gave me an encouraging nod. I knew what had to be done.
So I turned back to the cashier, took a deep breath, stared him straight in the eye, and in my clearest, bravest, most confident voice, slowly enunciated all ten digits of my phone number.
I am who I am.
See you on the compound.