Day 10: Babies of All Sorts

"Hold That Exhibit For Me!" For the lover of all things art-related to show you're a sophisticated student of the world.

I realize we can't have it all in this life, but is a little politeness at your favorite local coffee shop too much to ask for? Today, after weeks of scrimping on lattes in order to save money, Hank and I decided to pop down to Pablo's on 6th, the only non-gay coffee shop within five blocks, and indulge my non-instant coffee craving. Notorious for its great beans and baristas, the place draws a magically huge crowd for not having the internet. Today was no different. Perhaps to escape the chilly Sunday weather, people had come from all corners of Capital Hill to commune with friends and read. Every table was full. We decided to get the coffee to go.

"What can I get you?" asked the cashier. "Um, can I get a split shot latte with 2%, please? With a little Amaretto in it, but just a splash. Thanks," I said. It's a version of what I always get and have had no problem ordering for the last 10+ years. He looked at me with a lazy expression. "What's a split shot?" He asked. "Oh, half-caf," I said, "It's the same."

Then the guy making the coffee drinks--tall, spiky-haired, emo, coffee guy--blurted out, "Oh great. Could you possibly add anything else to this drink?" He said it loud enough for the whole line behind me to hear. Here's where things descended into customer hell, and my memory goes a bit foggy, presumably from all the fury pulsating through my system. "Wow," I said out of shock. My mind felt numb. But coffee guy was on a roll and wasn't going to stop there. "Well, I guess you could mix a bunch of flavors too," he scoffed. The cashier apparently saw my unease. "Oh, don't worry about it," he said. "He's been crabby all day." But it was too late. I was already plotting my revenge. Fucking coffee guy was going down.

Waiting for my drink, I became unusually quiet, my eyes glazed over as I thought of what I should have said and what I could still say. Hank noticed and told me to breathe. He gave me some arm rubs. "How rude," I kept whispering. It's all I could muster. I was having fantasies of throwing coffee on coffee guy and asking for the manager as loud as coffee guy had coffee-shamed me. I couldn't get off it. I understood that a split shot required a little extra personalization, but wasn't personalization what coffee drinks were all about? Besides, it could have been worse for him. I could have ordered a white chocolate/raspberry, split shot, quad, lungo, skinny, wet cappuccino. He would have really blown a fuse.

As he handed me my drink, he nearly spit the words, "Here's your laaaaatte." That was all the goading I needed. "Gee, thanks, that seemed so difficult for you," I barked, flames in my eyes. We stared each other down. "But you know, I guess I'd feel the same if all I did was make coffee all day." He said nothing, and Hank hurried me out. I don't know why I said what I did. It wasn't particularly mean, even though I said it with pure hatred. And it's not like my life is any more exciting at the moment. But I felt I had to say something, and it was all I could think of. Even so, as we left, Hank said, "Hon, you're stooping to his level."

Then it hit me. That's how wars start. That's the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in a nutshell. You hurt me, so I'm going to think you're scum and am going to hurt you right back. Coffee guy may have deserved it, but did I really have to react? Does the world need more reacting?

Enter episode ten: "The Baby Shower." Carrie's period is a no-show at the same time she and the gals get invited to a baby shower in a wealthy Connecticut suburb. Their newly-pregnant, once-hard-core-party-gal friend, Laney, announces that she is naming her girl Shayla, Charlotte's secret baby name--the one Charlotte was saving for her future daughter and had told Laney in confidence back in the day. Laney then criticizes the gals for never growing up, even though she misses her former lifestyle. After having watched kids smear chocolate cake on the carpet and scream at their coddling mothers, the women leave in a huff and decide they will be cool mothers or no mothers at all. They won't give up their lives or careers like these women. They won't pick their children over their men. Most importantly, of course, they won't move out of the city. Laney decides that the friends live in a dream world without any meaningful responsibilities. The girls decide that Laney's a bitch.

There it is again. Reaction. The friends react to Laney and what they see at the shower. Laney reacts to what she was and no longer can be--a single girl in the Big Apple. It seems we decide what kind of people we want to be by seeing other people who are what we don't want or can't be. We judge. We don't care who we are, as long as we're not them. And that makes them bad.

When I worked in customer service at a flower shop, I once spent 15 minutes with a elderly female customer picking out the right ribbon for a poinsettia. I didn't mind. I'm particular, so I can appreciate it in other people. For me, there are too types of customers--easy ones and interesting ones. But to coffee guy at Pablo's, I was just plain annoying. Maybe he thinks people should stick to plain lattes and not be so high-maintenance. Maybe he thinks decaf-coffee drinkers are losers. Maybe he hates women. So he scoffed at me. And I scoffed right back. How could anyone treat a customer--or anybody, really--like that? We warred. We butted. Sadly, it happens every day, on both minute levels and unimaginably large ones.

But maybe that's just how it has to be. We form our place in the world by deciding what we like and what we don't. Sometimes we change over time and learn to see some things from different perspectives. But even if we allow for an open mind, there are parts of ourselves that are too ingrained to change--like my desire for politeness and coffee guy's desire for something else. To him, I'm difficult. To me, he's rude. We can hide these small judgements, but when we've had a long day of making complicated coffee drinks or are PMS-ing and tired of feeling like an unemployed idiot, they come out. And they turn us all into babies.

Maybe Hank was right (he often is). Maybe I didn't have to react. Maybe I could have just taken a deep breath, accepted my differences with coffee guy, and enjoyed my latte. I should practice that, I suppose. Maybe this is a start. But it's never easy, not for any of us. I hope you'll be back. I will.