Beep, beep, beep. 6:20 a.m. I jump out of bed, climb into the shower for a quick scrub, brush my teeth, and put on my high-waisted control top yoga pants and pink push-up bra lying next to my bed. I grab my uniform hat and polo shirt and hurtle out the door, making sure to grab my make-up bag on the way out.

6:45 a.m.

The radio talk show host dishes “Dave’s Dirt” as I drive through my familiar neighborhood, trusting my muscle memory to guide me along each snaking curve in the road. I zoom over the hill of the highway and once I reach the apex, I can see it. I see the first rays of sunshine blooming up behind the enormous gym—a mecca of fitness and home to my second job at the café therein.

6:55 a.m.

Just enough time to spare, I lean over one of the locker room mirrors next to the wood-paneled cabinets that line the walls. I plaster on enough foundation to form a second layer of skin over every blemish, scar and freckle inscribed onto my face. I apply the finishing swipes of mascara and consider my reflection. That’ll have to do, I think, never fully satisfied.

7:00 a.m.

I walk into the café, pulling my low ponytail through the back of my hat, tucking in the fringes of hair on the sides. I grab the three unmade order tickets resting on the printer, toss a quick greeting at my other two co-workers, and get to work. It’s non-stop for two hours as the motivated morning crop of gym rats file in for their post-workout acai berry smoothies and farm breakfast bowls, bursting with protein and proclaiming vast health benefits.

I read the lingering orders—almond butter shake with an espresso shot, another with extra whey protein, and (surprise!) a third with about 12 modifications. I quickly process the demands—banana, chia seed, chocolate whey, cinnamon, almond butter, ice, espresso. Repeat. I walk all three of the shakes over to the receiving counter, balancing the drinks as if I were a wobbly Dr. Seuss character, miraculously stable from hours and hours of practice.

The woman standing at the counter eyes me with an expectant look, her unwrapped straw already in her hand, poised to plunge into her plastic cup and suck up the 358 calories she’s carefully allocated herself for the day.

“Almond butter with espresso?” I ask. She reciprocates with a curt nod and zooms away without the slightest smile or expression of gratitude, Lulu lemon gym bag thunking against her strong, artificially tan legs as she struts out of the dining room. I pull my pants up little higher to make my less-than-perfect stomach look a little flatter. I stand a little taller and push my diminutive chest out a little further. Can these women tell I am crippled with insecurity? Under this hat, under this makeup, under this fake “have a nice day?”

Every shift, I watch droves of women at the fitness center carry out parts of their artificial lives. Days spent grocery shopping for organic unsweetened almond milk, attending yoga classes, picking up the dry cleaning, doing stair-steppers and split lunges, and then chauffeuring their kids from the bus stop to hockey practice.

They are wives and mothers, but not teachers or lawyers, nurses or laborers. Contrary to the strength I’ve learned to admire in progressive women of my generation, they are entitled and indulgent, judgmental, even unfeeling at times. To them, I am an almond butter shake with espresso. Nothing more.

Though I may not sport chiseled arms and abs or have year-round golden skin or weekly appointments for French manicures, my own priorities are of a different sort—to learn, show compassion, help others, to strive for equality and self-love. Sometimes an unprompted thank you or have a nice day is all I need to hear. It acknowledges the work I have done on their behalf and that I, too, have a “day” outside of the fitness club—a life that is all my own. It is difficult to realize the impact one’s attitude can have on the self-worth and outlook of others in such a brief and impersonal setting, but I assure you nothing goes unnoticed. All it takes is a small shred of humanity.