Sure, people like unexpected birthday parties and a delivery of flowers at work. But otherwise, no one ever gasps in excitement over flat tires and audits.
I learned this one summer in college when I worked as a waitress at a high-end restaurant on the lake.
I gained a substantial amount of knowledge that summer. I learned how to balance a very large tray—filled with steaming hot plates—gracefully on my shoulder. I learned the ideal temperature for preparing each cut of meat. I learned how to open a wine bottle while continuing to talk and charm those at the table (that one still comes in handy). And I learned how to deduce dessert orders from slurring drunk people (also, oddly handy).
But the biggest lesson I took away from my three months in the food industry was how to manage expectations.
The restaurant I worked at was a veritable hot spot. The wait for a table was consistently over an hour. So running out of a certain dish, or a particular vintage, wasn’t uncommon.
In my first few weeks, I would never tell the table upfront that we were out of prime rib or that the case of ’94 Chateau Montelena didn’t arrive in time for the weekend. Instead, I’d bet the odds that they wouldn’t request either and the issue would never arise. But inevitably, they’d want a hearty steak with a good red wine. And when I would have to quietly inform them we were out of the Porterhouse—after they had their minds made up—they were always incredibly frustrated.
My tips suffered greatly in those instances.
One night I saw a veteran waitress approach a table of Saturday night regulars, predictably in their polos and boat shoes. She said hello and told them how nice it was to see them all again, and then immediately informed them, with a cute cluck of the tongue:
“Just so you are aware, we have run out of lobster tonight.”
I expected to see these very wealthy men stand up, grab the hands of their impossibly thin wives, and storm out of the restaurant, never to return again. But instead, they shrugged and asked the waitress what else she’d recommend.
It was the first time I understood that people, even yacht owning people, can be reasonable and rational in the face of disappointment.
So long as they have a heads up.
Imagine how much more easily people could handle difficult life transitions if they just knew what exactly to expect. I mean, giving birth and caring for an infant isn’t exactly like being told duck l’orange is no longer on the menu, but the idea is the same.
Could someone, anyone, have clued me in on what it’s like to hear your infant cry for hours on end? Was it too much to ask that someone give me a heads up about the after care for episiotomies?
I took this idea, an idea I learned as a young waitress, and I’ve carried it into most every aspect of my life. I believe my response to Jim's marriage proposal was something along the lines of:
“Just so you are aware, I need to talk out all my feelings. All the time. I get uncomfortable with too much seriousness. And there’s a chance I fart in my sleep.”
And he went into the marriage knowing full well what to expect.
In parenting, I try to let my kids know what’s happening. I tell them in the morning what their day holds. And while I hope a few exciting and unpredictable adventures await them, they seem to take comfort in knowing that Daddy will take them to school, Mommy will pick them up, and we are having chicken for dinner.
And I try, as best I can, to use this technique at work. Because in my role, managing expectations is paramount.
For me, the most difficult aspect of being an instructor is writing the syllabus. Not creating the class. Not thinking up challenging and worthwhile assignments. Not putting together and delivering lectures.
But writing up the syllabus.
This is solely because I have about three pages to manage everyone’s expectations of how the next four months of their life will go.
A typical syllabus contains the instructor’s contact info, the course description and objectives, the required textbooks, the reading schedule and the class (and university) rules.
For whatever reason, I always forget how deeply students care about the syllabus. But every semester, when my syllabi get posted a week before class starts, I’m reminded of how much people hate surprises.
And how far they will go to avoid them.
Last week, mere minutes after posting a syllabus for each of my classes, I had a stream of emails trickle in. These emails are never fun to open because never once has a student emailed just to say, “Wow, that’s a damn fine syllabus! Garamond? You dawg!”
Instead, emails come in with questions about the schedule. Did I mean to put those two due dates on back-to-back weeks? Or questions about the textbook. Can I just use an older edition my friend has? There are questions about my office hours. Can I ever meet at 7:00am? And even questions about my attention to detail. Did I mean to have so many typos?
I get it. I really do. When I was a college student I couldn’t wait for the syllabus. I wanted to be fully aware of what I could expect. And what would be expected of me. I had a need to put all the due dates in my planner. And to try to grasp the personality of the professor by the tone of the text.
But from my perspective now, there’s too much pressure on that document. I want to be able to let the class bend and curve with the personality of the group. To allow for organic debates about unforeseen topics (you know Trump is running for president, right?). And yet I can’t neglect the aching need everyone has to feel comfortable, assured, and aware of what’s to come.
Because no one likes surprises.
Least of all the wealthy restaurant patrons in search of top shelf vodka. Or newlyweds braving the adventures of cohabitation. New mothers overwhelmed by their responsibility. Children feeling scared by all the unknowns of life. Students fearing a bad grade.
And yet.
One night at the restaurant a customer was upset because our menu had changed and his favorite dish was no longer on it. To compensate for the foul mood this put him in, I surprised him with a free dessert. The size of my tip that night was certainly unexpected.
In our first year of marriage, Jim had to have unexpected surgery. He was pleasantly surprised to discover what an excellent caretaker I could be.
And one day, when I dropped Lowery off at school, I promised her Jim would be picking her up. She said it again to confirm. I promised. But my mother unexpectedly came into town that afternoon and asked to pick her up from school. The look on my child’s surprised face, according to my mother, was the stuff dreams are made of.
And some of the most meaningful evaluations I have ever received were in courses in which the students’ expectations for the class were extremely low. One wrote that he didn’t think the topic would be interesting, and another commented that she had never heard anything about the professor. And yet many seemed pleasantly surprised at how much they liked the class.
Which leaves me wondering if maybe people do like surprises. I mean, I get it when expectant mothers want to wait to see the gender of their baby at birth. But even they know what species to expect. Or maybe it’s just that people like to be surprised when they know the limited, and possible, outcomes.
But then, our children love to get surprises no matter what it is. I can guarantee that a surprise trip to Disney World would elicit the same response as the toy in a Cheerios box, so maybe people just like the idea of surprises.
Or maybe it’s not knowing the possible outcomes or liking the potential of surprises; maybe it’s that people are adaptable. A friend of mine became unexpectedly pregnant, despite vowing she was done birthing babies. And yet, she claims that baby is the greatest surprise she’s ever received. So maybe the unexpected that might catch people off guard, throw them off their game, disrupt their routine, is something they adapt to and grow to appreciate. Maybe people like surprises in retrospect.
So then how should I continue? Should I let my husband deal with unexpected changes in my personality, mood and life goals? Should I expect them in his? Should I control my children’s environment as best I can to help them feel as secure as possible? Or do I just teach them how to deal with the unknown? And should I work even harder to constantly clarify the expectations of education? Or should I just encourage my students to enjoy the ride?
I guess I just sometimes feel very unsure of exactly how to function in my roles as a spouse, a mother, and an educator.
But that’s to be expected.
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