This story begins as all good stories begin.
Last night was Fried Chicken Night. *Cue the clouds parting and holy music raining down.*
The one glorious time a month when I make a trek across town, braving rush hour and icy roads and pissed off drivers who flip me the bird while I whip my hair back and forth, careening across five lanes of busy highway to make the precarious exit, finally pulling into the cramped parking lot of a diner that has fried chicken I would gladly name my imaginary kids after. (The restaurant’s name is Tom, which is fine, but I think Deep Fried Poultry has a certain ring to it, don’t you? If it was a girl, I could totally call her Dee, and a boy would totally rock DFP. He’d basically be destined to be an all-star rapper, you guys.)
Also, for what it’s worth, I am a terrible driver.
ANYways. Sitting down at a table and immediately ordering a vodka gimlet, I skimmed the menu, my stomach growling so loudly that I wanted to see if I could autotune it into a sweet song that my future musician son DFP could turn into a chart-topper. There was fried chicken, huge servings that came with mashed potatoes and a beer, scoops of collard greens and thick slabs of toast.
But, (insert first-world problem), I didn’t want huge servings that came with mashed potatoes and a beer, scoops of collard greens and thick slabs of toast. What I wanted was one piece of chicken, a piece of cornbread, and a couple bites of macaroni and cheese–without getting seventy jillion plates, ordering fifty pounds of food, or spending $100 on a damn dinner.
So when the waiter showed up, rocking a navy bow tie that made him adorable and just avant-garde enough for me to make googly eyes up at him, I cleared my throat, twisted my hands in my lap, and asked for exactly what I wanted. (Smaller portions. Different sides. A whole new menu item that didn’t actually exist.)
The best part is? Requesting a special order wasn’t a problem at all.
And just by telling a stranger my thoughts, twenty minutes later I got everything I’d ever wanted, delivered right in front of me by a gorgeous man, literally on a silver platter.
I know. I know that not everything we want fits on a plate or can made in a kitchen. (I mean, last time I checked, a life-size replica of James Franco still had to be made in a factory). But that’s not the point. The size or scope or money or effort or difficulty involved is not the point.
The point? Is that if you need someone’s help, you will never, ever get what you want unless you ask for it, but there’s still this weird stigma about voicing what we need. All I wanted was a single fucking piece of fried chicken, and I still had the nervous sweats. But it’s time to stand up, clear our throats, and take action.
Because unless you’re ready to wait forever for something good to fall into your lap, you need to put yourself in the front lines and let those bitches know exactly what you need.
The worst that can happen is they say no, in which case? You politely choke down your collard greens, check out the waiter’s ass while he walks away, and decide to try again–to try like hell–next time.
What do you want? (It’s as simple as that.) Tell me in the comments, because it’s time to get comfortable with asking for exactly what we need.