"PARTICIPATION TROPHIES" of ADULTHOOD

Apparently adulthood has its own participation trophy system, and it’s called customer satisfaction surveys. They slip into your inbox or get left on your doorknob like my most recent sacred parchment: “Please rate your pest control experience from 1 to 10.”

This time, I wasn’t even home. I have no idea if he annihilated hornets and fire ants with the cold intensity of a Terminator, or if he just stood in my driveway playing Candy Crush. He did leave a checklist that basically said, “Yes, I did the things.” So I gave him an 8. Respectable. Solid. That’s a “you did your job and I have no complaints.”

But no. An 8 in the hellscape of our Yelp-verse was apparently throwing shade. The survey system spat back: “We’re sorry you weren’t happy with your service.” Dude? I wasn’t unhappy—I was just grading like a reasonable adult. Since when does “8—leaving room for improvement because only Jesus is perfect” land on customer service ears like total collapse? Rigged ratings turn “feedback” into a test of my perceptions rather than his fearless face-offs with spiders and wasps.

But since I gave him an 8 for “killed bugs appropriately” and not a 10 for “Yard awash in palmetto bug carcasses and I want to write him into my will,” I’m left wondering if on his next visit he’ll do the pest control equivalent of spitting on my hamburger.

I once had a boss who was considered too harsh for giving competent employees 3 out of 5 stars on annual reviews. But was he wrong? His scale: 3 meant “you did what you’re paid for,” 4 meant “you do the work of three people,” and 5 meant “you walk on water with the building on your back.” Thanks to our high school GPA trauma, “average” feels like failure. But a 3 is actually fine, poppets— it’s called doing your job.

And it’s not just household help. I once gave my cardiologist a 9 out of 10—because again, great visit, everything was fine—but there was an inevitable follow-up question: “What went wrong?” Okay, patient portal, maybe next time the doctor could burst in with his hair on fire, wave a wand, and cure my arrhythmia for all time. Then Ryan Reynolds hands me a cup of tea and a $40 co-pay for being such a delightful patient. That will be a 10.

But customer surveys don’t want honesty—just inflated reviews in exchange for a free pen or 5 percent off my next blood panel. They know we don’t have time to craft essays about every haircut and oil change, but they’ll still brag about a b’zillion 5-star ratings on Google. It seems a 10 isn’t excellence anymore; it’s the minimum grade to prove you’re not a raging Karen demanding to speak with the manager.

And those Google ads? They’re about as trustworthy as Amazon reviews—the ones where every off-brand blender, vitamin, and heated eyebrow massager gets five stars because people were bribed with a $5 gift card or a free garlic peeler.

So here we are: swimming in a sea of fuzzy 5s and 10s, where “meh, functioned as expected” gets filed under “customer deeply dissatisfied.” A 6–8 should mean “you did your job.” If you want a 10, that’s extra credit—juggle fire ants, turn my heart into an Olympian muscle, and don't forget my coupon.

Participation trophies for children at least come with a plastic figurine. Participation trophies for adults? Just a guilt trip and endless explaining to avoid hurt feelings.

Really, wouldn't most of us prefer an honest review? Maybe plant Leigh somewhere on a scale between zero and Nate Bargatze so I know whether I'm just skating by here in the back pages or actually landing the jokes. Nothing like people politely nodding then rolling their eyes at all these talks when Leigh's back is turned.

P.S. - You get an un-ironic 10 for reading to the end!