To tip or not to tip: that's not merely a question for diners wrestling with a mediocre meal and a hefty bill; it's the existential struggle at the heart of much of David Sedaris's humor.

Sedaris, a master of the observational essay, frequently uses the act of tipping – or the agonizing deliberation before it – as a lens through which to examine cultural anxieties, personal neuroses, and the absurdities of human interaction.

His essays don't tackle the simple "how much" of tipping; rather, they delve into the why.

The act becomes a microcosm of societal pressure, a performance demanded by the invisible rules of politeness.

Sedaris, with his characteristically wry and self-deprecating tone, dissects his own internal conflict: the sting of parting with money juxtaposed against the fear of social ostracization for perceived stinginess.

He meticulously analyzes the nuances of service, desperately searching for a justification (or an excuse) to adjust the tip – a slightly burnt piece of toast, a mumbled "thank you," a perceived lack of enthusiasm – transforming the seemingly mundane transaction into a comedic battle of wills.

His accounts of navigating foreign tipping customs further highlight the cultural chasm surrounding this seemingly simple gesture.

In countries where tipping is less prevalent or operates under different rules, Sedaris’s confusion and subsequent awkward attempts at navigating the social minefield are both hilarious and revealing of his own ingrained cultural biases.

He exposes the inherent tension between personal principles and societal expectations, leaving the reader pondering whether the act is truly about rewarding good service or merely adhering to a ritualistic performance.

Ultimately, Sedaris doesn't offer a definitive answer to the titular question.

Instead, he leaves us laughing at his own anxieties, prompting introspection about our own tipping habits.

His essays on the subject are less about the monetary value of the tip and more about the human comedy inherent in the act – the uncomfortable silences, the calculated glances, the internal monologue of self-justification – making "To tip or not to tip" a question that resonates far beyond the restaurant table.

It becomes a reflection on our own anxieties around social conformity, our attempts to navigate the unwritten rules of polite society, and our endless search for a perfect, justifiable, and ultimately, comical, conclusion.

My friend Dawn has two cats. and I went with her one afternoon to buy a bag of litter. This was in Minnesota, at a superstore that sold front doors and Halloween decorations and pet supplies, everything, under one roof.

I'm guessing the bag of litter we got weighed a good 40 pounds. It was really heavy, and I thought that if the only way you could get it home was to carry it in your arms, you'd probably put your cats to sleep after they'd gone through the first bag.

The next morning I left Dawn's house and flew to North Dakota. While in the Minneapolis airport I went for breakfast at one of those places where you order from a screen. Then you enter all your credit card information, and the machine asks if you want to tip 15%, 20%, or 22%.

For what? I thought. I mean, I sat myself. I ordered myself. I'm paying myself. Someone would bring me the plate of eggs, but it would be relatively light – it's nothing compared to the bag of litter I (or, OK, Dawn) had carried across a frozen parking lot the previous afternoon.

And the thing is, if you don't hit the 22% option, you feel like a cheapskate. Here you are, about to fly on a plane. Can you afford the extra 60 cents? Of course you can. I just feel that a portion of my tip should go toward me for all the work I've already done.

Then the person brings you your food and you see that she's an immigrant, and you think of how your grandparents were immigrants as well. Mine shined shoes while people shouted. "Learn to speak English, why don't you?"

Years later they opened a newsstand that sold Playboys, and when people told them they were going to hell, they still didn't understand them because they never really learned English. They were so lazy that way, my grandparents. Send them to the store for cat litter and they'd have likely brought home a sack of bird seed.

And so, I felt better about my 22% tip. The woman earned it just for going through security.

But wait, I thought, as I walked away: I went through security as well!

It was too late to take back my extra 60 cents, though, and so I went to my gate, and flew first class to North Dakota.

Me, a grandchild of immigrants!

       
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Story produced by Amy Wall. Editor: Emanuele Secci.

     
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