It started as a regular day. A taxi ride to the airport. Smooth. No complaints. As I got out, the driver smiled. “Please rate your ride,” he said. I tapped a number on my phone. Simple enough—or so I thought.

Next stop—the airport restroom. I washed my hands and reached for a towel. An attendant appeared with a clipboard. “Feedback, please,” he said, shoving a form into my damp hands. I scribbled something quickly. Who rates restrooms anyway?

Coffee time. The coffee was lukewarm. The feedback form was fresh. “How would you rate your drink?” the barista asked. I stared at the form. Then at my cup. Was I rating taste? Temperature? Or my general disappointment with life? I gave it a “3.” It felt safe.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? The 5-point scale. Looks simple. But what does “3” even mean? “Okay, I guess”? Or “I don’t want to be rude”? What about “2” and “4”? Are they just there to confuse us?

I was on edge by then. Would I be asked to rate the waiting area chairs? Or the airport temperature? Just as I relaxed, my phone rang.

“Your car has been serviced,” the voice said. “You’ll get a feedback form shortly.” Of course, I would. Why stop now?

And then came the upgrade—the 7-point scale. Or the 10-point one. As if we needed more ways to be unsure. How do you rate coffee between “lukewarm” and “slightly less lukewarm”? Can anyone tell the difference between a “6” and a “7” on a 10-point scale?

The day dragged on. More forms. More questions. It felt like a game show where the prize was exhaustion. No moment was safe from feedback.

Finally, I got home. Kicked off my shoes. Sank onto the couch. Peace.

Then I heard it.

“Dad,” my daughter asked sweetly, “on a scale of 1 to 5, how was your day?”

I stared at her. Then I laughed. Because, really, what else could I do?

Even at home, the Likert Scale had followed me.