That's My Name

For the first five years that I worked downtown, I walked past the same Starbucks every day. Actually, I went by about eight of them, but one quickly became a favorite. I stopped in usually at least once a week to get my usual Americano with room and sometimes a bite to eat. Because I was there on a fairly regular basis, Starbucks does what it does best, customer service. They knew my order when I walked in and had already started making it before I got to the counter. One barista there was so nice that he’d slip me extra treats when I ordered food. We knew each other so well in fact, that we’d wave and exchange hellos if we ran into each other in other parts of Portland.

Sadly, my company left that part of town. Now instead of walking past Starbucks on my way to work, I walk past homeless shelters and have to be diligent about watching where I step. Puddles don’t just happen spontaneously when it hasn’t rained in days. Although the homeless folks are mostly friendly, often saying good morning or telling me how beautiful I am (I’m pretty sure its because I have all my teeth), it’s not the same as someone knowing who you are when you walk through the door.

That all changed again recently. And this time it wasn’t Starbucks. It was the gym. That’s right, the people at the gym know me by name. Although it makes sense since I’m there at the same time 4-5 times per week, it still threw me off the first time it happened. I walked into the gym like I always do on my way home from work, because its right smack in the middle of my commute home, and I was greeted by the check in girl who called me by my first name. Without even glancing at my membership card.

To this day, I am still greeted by my first name when I check in at the gym. You know you go to a place too often when they know your drink order or name or what your favorite scone is. But if you frequent a place so often that they know you as more that just a random customer, it’s probably not a bad thing that the place is the gym.