The Unwarmed Muffin and the Power Play: A Daoist at Tim Hortons
There is a precise moment on the Sea-to-Sky Highway where the air changes. You leave the city behind, the mountains press in close, and the autumn colors flare up like a brilliant, quiet fireworks display. I was driving up to Whistler, completely in my element: just me, the road, beautiful photographs shared with my dear friend Belinda, and a very serious audiobook on Daoism playing through the speakers.
I was reflecting on the ancient, quiet truths of the world—how Daoism and Catholicism share this deep, underlying river of striving to be better, how ancient cultures in Egypt and Turkey were asking the exact same questions thousands of years ago about what happens after we die, and how, ultimately, we are all just trying to figure out how to live with some degree of harmony and peace.
And then I went to Tim Hortons.
Now, I am a sixty-year-old woman. I have traveled the world, studied geography, trekked mountains, and observed human nature across continents. But nothing tests your spiritual alignment Quite Like trying to order a half-decaf coffee with a specific cream ratio on a brisk autumn afternoon.
The counter exchange was harmless enough at first. The young server—a lovely newcomer to Canada, like so many service workers up in Whistler—seemed mildly baffled by the complex mathematics of a 50/50 coffee. It took her a moment. I waited patiently. Then I asked for three small Cremo containers. Suddenly, the internal alarm of customer-service panic went off in her head. A multigenerational family had just walked in behind me. Sensing the impending line, she shifted into hyper-drive, practically handing me my cup with one hand while trying to clear me out of the frame with the other.
"I need to take the next customer," she announced.
I stayed calm. I remembered to ask for my receipt. But my brain was juggling: a hot coffee mug in one hand, a muffin in the other, a wallet needing to be tucked safely into my purse, and the receipt to fold away. Because of her visible impatience, I surrendered. I didn't ask her to warm up my muffin—a simple pleasure I usually insist upon. I didn't even get a napkin. I was already shrinking myself, internalizing that quiet, social pressure to move along, be polite, and get out of the way.
And that is when the man in the group behind me decided to perform.
He didn't just step up to the counter. He took a look at me—a woman standing alone, balancing her paper cups and pastry—and decided this was his moment to claim authority over the room.
"Bye-bye!" he called out loudly, obnoxious and dripping with condescension. "Bye-bye!"
In my state of micro-shock, my social conditioning took over. I said "bye-bye" back and walked out. I walked out with an unwarmed muffin, no napkin, and a thoroughly bitter taste in my mouth.
It took me the rest of the drive to process what actually happened there. And the more I thought about it, the clearer the math became.
Let’s be entirely honest about the male perspective in this dynamic: This would never, under any circumstances, have happened if I were a man.
If a six-foot-two guy in his thirties had been standing at that counter, meticulously organizing his wallet and balancing his coffee, that man behind him would have swallowed his little "bye-bye" and waited in respectful, silent patience. If I had been accompanied by a husband, a brother, or a male friend, the comment would have vanished into thin air.
Why? Because bullies are social accountants. They calculate risk in a fraction of a second. He looked at a sixty-year-old woman alone and saw zero social cost. He saw an easy prop for a low-stakes display of dominance in front of his wife, his kids, and his extended family. He wanted to show his clan that he was the efficient, take-charge patriarch who clears the path and keeps things moving. And he used my quiet space to do it.
For generations, women have been subtly trained to facilitate this exact behavior. We are told to "keep the peace," to "not make a scene," to be "nice Canadians," and to leave gracefully so things don't escalate. We walk away feeling guilty for taking up twenty seconds of public space, while the person who insulted us goes on enjoying their afternoon coffee.
I am done accepting that status quo. And to the future generations—to the young women coming up behind us—this is where I want to get a little preachy.
I don't claim to have all the answers. I am still learning, still reflecting, still trying to align the high ideals of ancient philosophy with the messy reality of everyday rudeness. But I know this much: do not shrink.
Do not let anyone rush you out of your space before you have your napkin, your receipt, your dignity, and your muffin warmed to your exact liking.
When society expects you to fade into the background as you age, standing your ground is not being "un-Canadian" or aggressive—it is an act of self-respect. The next time someone tries to use public space to play a petty power game at your expense, don't just smile and walk away.
Plant your feet on the floor. Take a breath. Look them straight in the eye and ask them calmly, "Is there a reason you are speaking to me like that?" Or simply tell them, "I am finishing my order. You can wait a moment."
Let them be uncomfortable. Let their family see what casual disrespect looks like when it gets called into the light.
Life is too short, the autumn trees in Whistler are too beautiful, and we have lived through too much history to let anyone make us feel small over a cup of coffee. Claim your space, take your time, and always—always—get your muffin warmed.
