The 'Do You Know Who I Am?' Delusion

The 'Do You Know Who I Am?' Delusion

In the grand theater of modern retail, the curtain never fully falls. A chorus of smartphones zips through the air, a chorus line of loyalty programs and VIP lounges hums in the background, and somewhere between a scented candle display and a stack of glossy receipts stands a familiar creature that seems to have multiplied with every new app update: the customer who swaggeringly asks, “Do you know who I am?”

If you’ve worked front-line service, you know this species by its distinctive aroma: entitlement with a hint of toxicity, wrapped in a smile that feels curated rather than earned. The demand arrives like a sudden plot twist in a soap opera you didn’t audition for. It isn’t about product knowledge, pricing, or policy—it's about status. The customer believes that their perceived importance grants them a special exemption from the ordinary rules that govern the rest of us, including simple human courtesy.

The delusion wears many costumes. Sometimes it’s the “we’ve spent so much here” brag that doubles as a shield, as if a lifetime total of receipts makes one immune to the normal friction of commerce. Other times it’s the “I’m a influencer/entrepreneur/VIP, therefore you should bend the line and bless me with a miracle.” Then there are the quiet, simmering versions: a look that says, I know the system will bend for me because I’ve learned where the levers are—where to press, who to flatter, which button to push in the customer service matrix.

What’s astonishing is not that this attitude exists, but how it metastasizes in the age of social proof. Trust me, I’m practically a brand ambassador, so you should treat my minor grievance as if it were a national emergency. The modern customer has learned to weaponize visibility. A well-timed hashtag or a post with a photo of a “problem solved” receipt can do more to secure a favorable outcome than patience, civility, or a modicum of gratitude ever could. The result is a service environment where the loudest voice often distorts the quality of all voices—those who bite their lips and wait quietly while the universe rearranges itself to accommodate a single cameo of importance.

Policy debates get muddied in the current near-religious worship of the customer. “The customer is always right” is recast as “The customer is always right if the camera is rolling and the algorithm is watching.” This isn’t merely about economics; it’s a psychology of compliance turned social theater. Retail workers become reluctant actors in a constant audition where the line between being helpful and being browbeaten blurs. The “Do You Know Who I Am?” Delusion isn’t just about asking for a discount or a special seat; it’s about demanding that the entire framework of business bend to the performer's self-conception.

And yet, the cure is painfully simple, even if it isn’t glamorous: treat everyone with the basic decency you’d hope for in return, regardless of their follower count, their membership tier, or their ability to shout the loudest. Remember the human across the counter—the person balancing schedules, quotas, and the weight of boring, unglamorous rules that keep a shop open. The moment the frontline worker senses your respect, your willingness to listen, and your patience to allow a normal process to unfold, you disarm the delusion the way sunlight disarms a flock of moths.

So, here’s the prescription for the era of inflated egos: scale down the spectacle, raise the baseline of civility, and let the transaction reclaim its dignity. If we can do that, the theater stops pretending to be a courtroom, and the customer—yes, even the loudest one—can be served without becoming a prop in a bad script.

Beyond Introvert/Extrovert: The Power of Situational Personalities

We love labels. They’re neat, they’re tidy, and they save us from doing the messy work of actually understanding people. “Oh, she’s an introvert.” “He’s such an extrovert.” As if one word could sum up the maddening complexity of human behaviour. But life has a way of blowing holes in these categories. The so-called “introvert” who avoids office chatter suddenly becomes the life of the party at a cousin’s wedding. The “extrovert” who thrives in meetings freezes into awkward silence at a dinner table of strangers. Which is it?

The truth is we don’t have one personality—we have many, shaped and triggered by the situations we find ourselves in. Psychologists call this situational personality, but anyone with a social life already knows it intuitively. You act differently with your boss than with your childhood friends. You reveal one version of yourself on social media and another in private. It isn’t hypocrisy—it’s adaptability.

Yet society clings to the introvert/extrovert binary as if it were a moral compass. It isn’t. Human behaviour is not a permanent tattoo; it’s more like a wardrobe. We reach for what fits the moment. In some contexts, boldness is survival. In others, silence is wisdom. Reducing people to a static trait ignores this dynamic truth.

Here’s the irony: situational personality is not a weakness but a superpower. It allows us to navigate the complexities of modern life without cracking under the pressure of consistency. The colleague who seems aloof at work may be a phenomenal storyteller at family gatherings. The shy student may transform into a confident performer on stage. Context draws out capacities we didn’t even know we had.

So maybe it’s time to retire the tired introvert/extrovert debate. Instead of asking “what type are you?” we should be asking “who are you here and now?” Because the answer will always depend on the room, the company, and the stakes. And that’s not being fake—it’s being human.

The "Why Did I Do That?" Journal: Decoding Your Own Impulsive Actions

Why did you do that? No, really—why? Why did you buy that glow-in-the-dark yoga mat when you don’t even do yoga? Why did you text your ex at 2 a.m. with a message that could be summed up as “help me, I’m lonely and reckless”? Why did you order dessert after publicly declaring you were “cutting down on sugar”?

Welcome to the land of human impulse—the split-second kingdom where logic takes a holiday and desire drives the car. We like to think we’re rational beings, but truthfully, we’re just overgrown toddlers with credit cards, smartphones, and enough self-awareness to regret things five minutes after doing them.

And yet, here’s the kicker: these blunders aren’t random. Every “what was I thinking?” moment has a trigger, and decoding it can be more enlightening than a TED Talk. Stress, boredom, hunger, FOMO, or the universal curse of scrolling social media at midnight—each plays puppeteer with our behaviour.

This is why you need a “Why Did I Do That?” journal. Not a glossy, Instagrammable notebook where you write affirmations in glitter ink—no. A blunt, no-excuses log of your idiocy. Example entry: “Bought a fifth pair of sneakers because life felt empty and the algorithm told me I’d look hotter in them.” Or: “Ate an entire pizza alone because Monday exists.” Brutally honest, painfully funny, but revealing.

Because patterns emerge. Suddenly, you’ll see that your spending sprees aren’t about “needing new clothes”—they’re about bad workdays. Your outbursts aren’t about “other people being idiots”—they’re about you being tired. Congratulations, you’ve just cracked the code on your own madness.

But here’s the twist: impulsivity isn’t all bad. That same itchy urge can lead to brilliant ideas, bold leaps, and moments that make life less beige. The problem isn’t the impulse itself; it’s the lack of awareness. When you know the pattern, you get to choose whether to lean into it or rein it back.

So the next time you’re standing in your kitchen, licking Nutella off a spoon at midnight, don’t just sigh in shame. Write it down. Decode it. Laugh at it. Own it. Because your impulses may make you ridiculous, but they also make you human—and knowing why you do them is the first step to steering your chaos instead of drowning in it.