It's Coffee's Fault

My Quest To Be Part of the Club

“I need coffee.”

I miss being that person who says that. And then gets the coffee, imbibes and becomes a perky cheerleader for five minutes. Wired then tired. I remember those days when I cherished a good cup of Joe—when it used to be pure Joe. For a while I went through a cream and sugar phase. But the lactose intolerance was rude, and the sugar was a college fling. Over the years I changed my habit to a soy latte, then soy went out of flavor (pun intended). And now, one can spend an hour in the grocery store milk section.

When I lived in Boston my bestie and her hubby owned a coffee house, roasting their own beans. It was delicious. (Shout out to Flat Black Coffee Company.) The jolt got me through the next few hours: exercising (maybe), driving kids everywhere (the core principle of parenting), making endless appointments to fix aging or crappy construction aka homeownership, working, then needing more coffee.

I can’t “do” caffeine anymore. I get heart palpitations…. As high as 140. That’s a workout except my body isn’t moving. If my heart could talk it would say, “What are you doing to me???!!!! I can’t handle this chemical, even though it’s a natural component of the beeeeaaaaan!!!” And when I switched to black tea my heart said, “Not again!”

So once in a while I pretend I’m that person, that I’m still in the clique, except that I’m drinking a decaf coconut milk latte. (Which BTW I can’t imbibe after 2pm as it will keep me up all night. Yes, there is still caffeine in decaf. Sensitive mama here.)

It’s not the 90’s anymore or early 2000s. The persons on the coffee line-up today are newer club members. They have recyclable bags under their eyes, droopy hat hair from a beanie made with environmentally friendly yarn and a used EV double parked out front. In my day, when Starbucks was never good, my java people didn’t have EVs on their radars. We were proud gas and coffee guzzlers. The plastic bags under our eyes were hard won.

I whisper, “Decaf” to the Barista taking my order.

“What?” she repeats, moving her ear closer, leaning into the counter.

“Decaf,” I say with my hand half covering my mouth in shame.

Said-Barista steps back as though I have covid and gives me the “what’s the point of decaf?” look.

I give her a $2 tip, so she’ll keep my secret to herself. Bribery works when you’re desperate to be part of the cool coffee drinker club—or today, cooperative. I wait for my libation at the end of the counter and wink at the person in front of me, collecting their cappuccino. I would make the toast maneuver with a pantomimed paper cup but that would be awkward. They’d back away from me—after all, I might ask for their IG handle.

Hot cup in hand, with an oval cardboard sleeve that doesn’t fit the round conical cup, I turn and scan the room for a chair. It’s packed. My kingdom for a chair! Now I’m intrigued by the patrons and start a private guessing game-- who might be like me, a decaffinator, a fake, an intruder. But no one looks suspicious. I don’t even see a tea bag label poking out from under a lid. My gut is telling me they’re all caffeine ingested, dam it.

I miss that coffee club. The comradery.

I blow into the tiny sip hole. I’m eager to bond, ready to blurt, “Ooo, my latte is wonderfully hot too. I got an extra shot. Late night. How many shots did you get? None? Wimp. Just kidding.”

I pretend well. I used to be an actress. Still. I wish I could be honest and welcomed. I’d join that table of gals by the window, sniggering and snorting as they look over a spreadsheet (what kind of person finds humor in crunching numbers? Someone who is caffeinated!)…. Or the two fully conscious moms, with six empty cups in front of them, periodically cooing into their strollers, making sure babies are content or asleep…

I’d even love to sit with those two skinny dude teenagers staring at their phones, ignoring each other. But that coffee in front of them is the treat that connects them, binds their relationship, buds forever-- even if they’re texting each other from two feet away.

There are no empty tables, so I scan the room for an extra chair at any table. I love sharing and meeting new people. Don’t worry. I get the message if someone doesn’t want to chat. Especially when they give me the eye roll, or they remove an ear bud as though I just interrupted a podcast on How To Cut Birthday Cake So Guests Don’t Compare Pieces.

As I angle my hips to get around two-tops and four-tops, the patrons eye me. I grin and nod, after all we are fellow coffee cows, we are in this heard together. I continue sliding over to a lone chair in the back, holding up my latte like the Statue of Liberty’s torch. This beverage is my golden ticket that instantly admits me to the fellowship. One by one the patrons squint at my cup. Then I realize, they know. Good God, it’s blaring in bold sharpie-dom! Latte—Coconut Milk—DECAF!

I look at my cup. The order written in bold. My name spelled completely wrong, C-A-R-R-L-I-S-S-A, but I’m used to that. I don’t care. Then, DECAF! The spreadsheet gals gasp, the baby mamas shield their infants, the teenagers suddenly become community bouncers; one plops his backpack on the last available chair.

“It’s taken,” he says.

I rapidly explain, “I get heart palpitations, so I must drink decaf. Please, let me sit. This chair is outside the bathroom. It’s the runt of the chair litter.”

I’m spurned, shunned. My Kingdom for Caffeine!

The patrons hold up their phones; I’m being videoed. I’ll be outed online. I could go viral. Now I’m having palpitations from anxiety. But then I think positive. Maybe there’s a small group of Decaf drinkers out there. They will rise-up and respond, tweet in my defense. It will become a movement. There will be a Decaf challenge. Videos of people all over the world guzzling in solidarity. We will hold up our cups proudly. Celebrities will appear on talk shows, say they don’t drink coffee at all. Oh no. That will plunge the coffee bean stock. The CEO of Starbucks and Peets will want to know who started this ugly trend.

Me?

The dude reluctantly removes his backpack. I sit. There’s a stink wafting from the bathroom; it lands on me. I decide to imbibe in my car.

Why can’t coffee houses be HIPPA compliant?

1. Do you drink regular or unleaded?

2. What do you imbibe?