Americans hate tipping. They still pay

I am a recovering people-pleaser, though I admit most of the recovering still takes place in private. I rehearse difficult conversations for weeks — on walks by the lake, in the shower, in the mirror — before actually having them. I’ve let subscriptions renew rather than endure the discomfort of calling to cancel. I once managed to pay extra for one of the worst haircuts of my life. And then there was the onyx. At a metaphysical shop, a cashier with impeccable black nails and at least six rings that looked like they had their own elaborate backstories silently turned a touchscreen toward me. It asked whether I’d like to leave a tip. Now, I’d never considered the etiquette of tipping for a rock, but something about the setting made pressing “No Tip” feel like tempting fate. I selected 15%, unwilling to risk the karmic consequences.

It took a blueberry muffin to break me.

At an airport coffee shop, I’d retrieved a bottled juice from the refrigerator and selected a muffin, mummy-wrapped in plastic cling wrap. The cashier scanned my items, and the tablet swung around. Would I like to leave a tip? My suggested options were 20%, 23% and 25%.