Not very Pollyanna-ish, I know, but hear me out.
I never had doormen before, living in an apartment pretty much abandoned by its owner, so gun-to-your-head giving is new to me, and it’s not as if I’m not my kind, generous self on a regular basis, because I am.
I buy coffee for them. Make it late at night for the midnight to eight man, feeling for him down in that drafty doorway. I even bought them a heater.
My point is, now I HAVE TO GIVE them cash, and frankly, I’m resentful.
I’m not a cash giv’in kinda gal. It’s cold and impersonal, along with having zip to do with Christmas. Where does it say Santa handed out 50s as he slid down the chimney?
These entitled men remind me of sharks circling a pool. My super, who as a friend said, farts and you have to pay him, is a very ungracious sort of person. Never says thank you while acting as if he’s always doing you a great, big favor. He doesn’t want random acts of kindness, like the heating pad I bought him when he hurt his shoulder falling off a ladder, or the brand new rug that was too big for my living room that now graces his. And the 20s one gives him throughout the year apparently don’t count.
No, he and his merry men want cold cash, now.
Think Jesse James, with tools.
I will comply, but with a very empty heart reminding me that, without grace, it doesn’t much matter what you give since obligation replaces love that alas, is conspicuously absent.
See, if it were left to me, they’d all get cookies, scarves and warm socks, not envelopes, but that’s just little, ole Connecticut me, dashing through the snow, in a one horse open sleigh, so to speak…in a twinset of course.