By: Staff Contributor

I don’t know exactly when it happened. I can’t point to a specific day on the calendar or a single traumatic shopping trip that triggered the change. But somewhere along the way, I transformed into a person I barely recognize: someone who gets easily annoyed by strangers, someone who is hyper-focused on getting her way, and someone who feels a simmering resentment toward the world when things don’t go exactly as planned. This version of me is particularly prominent when I am a "customer."

There is a specific kind of entitlement that creeps in when you have your wallet in your hand. In my mind, I had developed a very rigid philosophy: I am the queen, and the merchant is there to serve. I’m not talking about wanting people to bow or scrape the floor when I walk in, but I’ve grown to expect a certain level of reverence. In a world where competition is cutthroat and there are a dozen service providers for every single need, I felt that businesses should be eternally grateful for my patronage.

My logic was simple: I could wake up any morning and choose a different brand. I could take my money elsewhere in a heartbeat. So, if I chose a business and stuck with it, I felt that loyalty should earn me "points." Quality is part of the equation, sure, but convenience is the true currency. If a shop makes my experience even slightly inconvenient, the chances of me returning are slim to none, regardless of how good their product might be. I had become a "one strike and you’re out" kind of consumer.

Last week, that philosophy was put to the test, and I didn't exactly pass with flying colors.

I was in a new neighborhood, one I wasn't very familiar with, and I wanted to pick up some cookies for a family member. I happened to be near a bakery that I knew by reputation—it was famous, and for a good reason. I walked in, already tasting the sugar and butter, and placed my order. Everything was going smoothly until the moment of payment.

When I asked to pay via bank transfer, the person behind the counter shook their head. "I'm sorry, we only take cards or cash," they said.

I felt an immediate heat rise in my chest. I didn't have my physical card on me, and in my mind, a bank transfer was just as good as any other form of legal tender. I started to argue. The way I saw it, I was the one doing them a favor by buying their expensive cookies. I should be allowed to pay however I want as long as the money is moving from my account to theirs.

They wouldn’t budge. They cited "company policy," which is a phrase that usually acts like gasoline on my fire. I felt insulted. I looked at the person behind the counter and said, "You know what? I’m not going to buy from you at all." I turned around and marched out, the bell above the door ringing a sharp, angry goodbye.

I spent the next twenty minutes fuming. I was venting to my cousin, who was with me, expecting him to join my chorus of indignation. I wanted him to tell me how ridiculous they were and how a "famous" bakery should have better systems in place.

Instead, he tried to calm me down. He started offering logical, rational possibilities for why they couldn't take a transfer. "Maybe it’s a relatively new branch, and they haven't figured out the accounting for transfers yet," he suggested. "Or maybe they’ve been scammed by fake transfer alerts in the past, and they just don't want to take the risk."

The more he tried to explain their side, the angrier I got. I didn't want logic; I wanted validation. I kept snapping back, "I don’t care what their reasons were! I’m mad that I didn’t get my way." I was stuck in a loop of my own making, blinded by the fact that my "queen" status had been revoked over a simple cookie transaction.

The irony of the situation hit us about ten minutes later. We looked around and realized there were no other decent bakeries in the area. If I wanted those cookies for my family, I had to go back to the very place I had just stormed out of. It was the ultimate "walk of shame."

I was too proud and too angry to face the staff again, so I stayed in the car and sent my cousin back in with cash. I sat there in the passenger seat, arms crossed, feeling like a petulant child.

As we drove away, the silence in the car started to feel heavy. With the cookies finally in the backseat, my adrenaline began to fade, leaving room for a little bit of clarity. I realized that I had spent an hour being miserable over something that truly did not matter.

First, I realized my anger was completely misplaced. The staff members behind the counter were just employees. They don't make the rules; they just follow them so they don't get fired. If I wanted to be mad at a "policy," I should have been mad at a manager or an owner who wasn't even in the building. Directing my "royal" frustration at a person just trying to finish their shift was unfair and, frankly, a bit cruel.

Second, I realized that by letting them "get to me," I was the only one losing. The bakery didn't care that I was mad. They still sold the cookies. The employees probably forgot about the "angry lady" five minutes after I left. But I was the one with the elevated heart rate. I was the one whose mood was ruined. They got in my head, but I was the one who opened the door and let them in.

Inconveniences are a fundamental part of the human experience. They happen every single day, from traffic jams to rejected bank transfers. I had fallen into the trap of thinking that because I was a "customer," I was somehow exempt from the friction of daily life.

I’ve learned that while every business has its own way of operating, and those ways won't always align with my personal needs, it isn't a personal attack. I can choose to leave feedback, or I can choose to take my business elsewhere next time, but I shouldn't let it linger.

Being "right" isn't nearly as important as being at peace. I don’t want to be the person who gets mad at the world when she doesn't get her way. I want to be the person who can shrug her shoulders, find some cash, and enjoy the cookies. Life is too short to spend it fuming in a parking lot over a bank transfer. From now on, I'm resigning from my "queen" position and trying out a new role: a human being who understands that everyone else is just trying to get through their day, too.