The Fussies--
If You Can’t Thwart Them, RUN!
Do any of these characters sound familiar?
“I can’t make up my mind about what to order. Ask the others first.” The server takes food orders, comes back to the person still agonizing about choices. She asks “Can I get the fish, but broiled, not fried, and oh, I’d like quinoa, preferably red, rather than French fries...” with an apologetic little laugh at her connoisseurship.
“I can’t let you order off the menu like that, ma’am.”
“Well, could I talk to the manager? I really neeeeeed my quinoa.” The words are hesitant. The voice sounds absolutely assured.
You realize it’s going to be a long time until dinner.
The line at the deli counter is stalled. “I want the cheese slicked medium. No, that’s too thin. Now, that’s too thick.” The counterman tries a third time. Still not right. The line extends past the frozen foods until the thickness of the cheese slice has been approved. “Now, about the chicken salad. Is there coriander in it? Are you sure there’s no coriander in it? Can you go downstairs and check? And if there’s a fresh bowl down there, I’d rather have that, please.”
The counterman disappears, heading for downstairs where the coriander may or may not live. People in the line sigh.
The boutique saleswoman assembles the toiletries into a pretty basket and starts wrapping pastel cellophane about it while the customer taps her Amex on the counter. “I’m changed my mind. Instead of the soap and cucumber scrub, I want a vanilla candle and lavender body wash.” The cellophane drops to one side as the saleswoman corrects the order. The customer turns to the line. “Oh, I’m terrible, aren’t I? But this will be so much better, don’t you think?” What we think is not fit for publication.
No, it won’t be better. Besides, she’ll probably change the order again. What’s more, some of us have lunch reservations. Where, no doubt, we’ll run into more allergies, the preferences, and the indecisiveness.
At the weekly marketing meeting, our task is to approve the latest PowerPoint infestation. One slide follows another, and it actually looks as if we may get out before someone really needs to make it to the bathroom. “Quick question!” announces a slight, intense young man, one step above intern. “Don’t you think that slides 6 and 10 could be combined into one and that you should rewrite slide 11 to make it sound more analytical. Yes, I know it’ll have to go back through Compliance, but I think it would be bet-ter...”
Three people at the table make head-desk gestures. The manager beams at the kid with his “quick question” that means we may not get home in time for dinner. The Chief Compliance Officer will scream and kick the project upstairs. And guess who won’t be blamed for throwing it behind schedule? Not the kid asking the questions.
For some damn reason, we’re watching “Say yes to the dress.” A fiancee with a voice like a grackle likes the top, but not the bottom of one gown, mispronounces the ruching she does like on the skirt, and engages in a long discussion of beading. The entourage promptly doesn’t like any of her choices. The consultant, chic in black but with weary feet, adjusts her smile.
The Fussies are always with us. Usually, they’re ahead of us in line. Any normal person can’t see what they’re fussing about, but they’re fussing, all right, and everyone else is being held up.
Unlike the song “Short People,” Fussies have no reason to live. Now, don’t get me wrong. I know people who have lethal allergies. They carry Epi-Pens. They warn you in advance, so you can create and plate dishes that will not send them into anaphalytic shock and warn other people not to help themselves until the person with the allergy eats first. And then, there are the people with ARFID, who cannot tolerate certain textures, fear choking or throwing up, and who have forgotten their food supplements. This is a serious problem. As host, your job is to do the best you can to get them fed – as opposed to the person who wants to turn a prime burger into a hockey puck, and not plate it anywhere near cold foods because hot and cold foods on the same plate are (gagging noises).
The Fussies are always with you. They don’t like this. They don’t want that. They do want something that’s just like the thing they’re rejecting, only in a different color and half the price. And they’re prepared to stand there negotiating until closing time.
The Fussies’ wants are valuable. Your time and priorities are not. Just ask them. Assuming that they even notice you exist, which, frankly, I wouldn’t bet on.
Sometimes, Fussies are dangerous. Like the people who stop in the middle of Madison Avenue, fumble in a pocket for their phone, and – while standing in the middle of the street – insist on snapping several pictures while gesturing at their friends to move right there. No, not there. Over to the Left. No, that’s not right...why is that rude person honking his horn?
Maybe because you’re holding up traffic? Maybe because a truck almost hit yu?
Why does it take so long to get dressed, or to pack, or to get out the door without having to go back and check on the stove not one but three times?
It’s not cute. It may not even be compulsive. You could have compassion for someone driven by OCD.
Fussy is as Fussy does. And what Fussy does is create elaborate corrections the better to attract attention, correct the victim next in line, or simply show how much more refined the Fussy’s taste is than anyone else, and how the whole damn world ought to be glad to let a Fussy show what true perfection is.
What’s worse: the Fussy expects you to go along with the Fuss.
Then, the laboriously chosen food comes. The package is wrapped. The slides make it through the art department AND Compliance a second time, while your stomach acids churn because the Fussy is very likely to inflict further editing on the team. The pictures get taken.
Now, can we get on with what we’re doing?
“Well, I suppose it’s all right, but maybe you could take the steak back and warm it up? Or switch the wrapping paper to pale green? Or reorder the slides...see, there’s a typo...” No, it’s not. “It’s” is very different from “Its.” Oh, I’m SORRY.
No, you’re not.
No matter what, the Fussy will never be satisfied.
Don’t fool yourself. What the Fussy really wants isn’t chicken without coriander or cheese sliced into the proper number of Angstroms, or the dress perfectly assembled, or the slides edited, renumbered, tricked out with new graphics, and approved. The Fussy wants to be noticed and to win.
And any time you have to slow down for a Fuss that is non-critical, the Fussy wins. Which is what the Fussy meant to do all along.