Why do people ask how you’re doing when you clearly look awful?

The other day I went into my local chicken shop after a big night out. I looked seedier than a parrot’s poo. It was roughly 3pm. I was wearing pyjama bottoms, a dirty jumper and thongs (I was also wearing my watch, to make my outfit look more purposeful and accessorised with a dinosaur mood ring to indicate to bystanders that I had lost control my life, but was still fabulous). I hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before and, according to the residue on my sandals, I didn’t end up completing the digestion process. So I was hungry, weak and a little shaky. My facial expression could be best described as was a mix of “just about to sneeze” and “the dog just died in the action movie”. I had a mess bun with so many flyaway hairs that it looked like I had slept on a balloon.

I was in fine form.

I walked up to the counter, and the girl at the cash register greeted me and asked how I was. Sure, she was just being friendly and enquiring about a person’s wellbeing is standard practice in customer service.

But you’re not supposed to actually answer them. You’re supposed to tell them you’re “good, thanks” and then cut to the chase (in this instance “the chase” means “requesting an ungodly amount of food without a side order of judgement from the team of teenagers handling your greasy pleasures”). You’re not supposed to be honest.

Because working in this particular chicken shop can’t be easy. These fast food soldiers would be exposed to all kinds of pain, and would perhaps clock off traumatised if everyone answered the “how are ya” question honestly. Being about 97.8 per cent of Toowoomba’s morning after food of choice, these brave young people would see the Garden City at its absolute worst. It’s practically a triage centre for the hungover. I’m talking smudged mascara, mismatched shoes, the dankest of trackpants. 

But seeing humanity at its lowest would correspond with some serious highs. They would witness the healing power of chicken salt. The soothing properties of secret sauce. The invigorating attributes of barbecued chicken.

I can’t think of a more noble profession. I have nothing but respect for these people, but on this afternoon, I forgot about their vital service.

“How was I going?!” What a bloody question. I thought about telling her the truth. “Well, I’m about to buy a family-sized box of chips entirely for myself at three in the afternoon. How the heck do you think I’m going Sharon?!”

But something stopped me. Sure, I just wanted my salty rectangular prisms of potato and didn’t want to prolong the ordering process. I didn’t want to come off a jerk. I didn’t have the actual energy to say that many words with my mouth while standing up. 

But mostly, I reminded myself how thankful I was for her service. I answered with a “tip top” and asked for my chippies.