Standing in line at a coffee shop is a time-honored tradition. Listening to new music, wondering if they’ll be out of skim milk when you get to the counter, and praying that no one has a list of eight coffees they’re picking up that will extend your stay by an extra fifteen minutes are feelings all too familiar to anyone that wastes $4.50 everyday. In line, you people watch to the point of no return where you either decide you know someone’s entire life story, or you pick them apart with an unjustified hatred. You peer over everyone’s shoulder to see what they’re typing on their phone and you pretend to be reading a four-day old paper when someone you don’t want to talk to strolls through the front door.
Joe Fox (of the world-accepted greatest film ever You’ve Got Mail) said, “The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. Short, tall, light, dark, caf, decaf, low-fat, non-fat, etc. So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino.”
Whether you’re a Starbucks Gold Card Holder (I’ve still never been there), a regular at a local upscale hangout, or just a regular-ass dude trying to get his fix, we all know that what you drink in the morning speaks volumes about the type of person you are.
Oh, cool, do you smoke Marlboro Reds like the Olsen twins too? We get it, you’re hardcore. When you’re sitting at the dingy bar on the upcoming part of town, you’re drinking one of two things: a draft beer that was poured from a tap that hasn’t had its tubes cleaned in months, or a Jack on the rocks that makes you wince because you’re still not totally accustomed to drinking whiskey yet still want to put out the vibe.
The low-key best part about not having any dairy products in your coffee? It won’t stain as much when you spill on your black jeans.
“Je t’aime Americanos.”
Please, tell me more about when you studied abroad in Paris seven years ago. Seriously, I’d love to hear about how transformative it was for you. It must have been just like Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, huh?
I get it, you looove espresso. But, you don’t want to be the person carrying around a 4-ounce sample size of a drink when you leave the café because you’ll finish it too quickly, and being seen with that recycled paper cup from the borough’s newest coffee shop is half of the reason for getting coffee in the first place.
When people ask why you don’t just get a coffee, you answer, “I like the bitterness of the espresso, and it’s more consistent than their shitty coffee.” Yeah, alright, buddy. Whatever you say.
“Can you add some extra ginger to my kale smoothie?”
You’re wearing workout clothes without actually working out, and you’re oblivious to the fact that they’re filling your smoothie with sugars because you’re blinded by the fact that your smoothie is labeled as “green.” When you walk into work every morning with it, you leave the empty green sludge-covered clear cup on your desk for everyone to see how healthy you are before you start judging their packed lunches for not being healthy enough.
You’re the type of person that spends their weekdays eating clean before blacking out on $13 bottles of red wine all weekend, only to start the trend again come Monday morning when you’re limping through your three-day streak of waking up with a cabernet headache.
“Yeah, just these two Monsters.”
When you walk in, you go straight up to the fridge and toss those 24-ounce monstrosities of a sugar high onto the counter before heading back to your Chevy Avalanche that’s towing double jet skis and blasting deep cuts of Limp Bizkit and Papa Roach. Your Hurley shirt pairs perfectly with your Billabong shorts, and you skip leg day because, “No one’s ever gotten laid with twigs for arms.”
With a name like Shane or Bryce, you only care about three things: going fast, getting pussy, and making sure everyone knows that you’re the most shredded dude in the room by drawing attention to yourself with the chrome flames necklace you recently bought at a stand in the middle of the mall.
“Venti Iced Skinny Hazelnut Macchiato, Sugar-Free Syrup, Extra Shot, Light Ice, No Whip.”
Your husband hates you. He hates that he’s spending $65 on a sheet of foam that you pretend to do yoga on. He hates that you keep asking him if he’ll buy you a white Range Rover. He’s tired of you asking him to pick up more greens on his commute home after working two extra hours to avoid the post-work twilight hour where you tell him about the hobbies you’re considering picking up (and he’s too nice to tell you that your paintings suck).
You need to realize that your husband didn’t go to school for six-plus years so he could buy you $150 reflective workout pants that make you the hottest mom at the bus stop, and the reason his short game is so good is because he spends his weekend mornings at the country club to avoid fixing the high-efficiency dishwasher that you had to have.
“Large cold brew, please.”
Look at you, Nancy Botwin. I see what you’re doing over there twirling that straw in your mouth. Those Madewell jeans and turtleneck sweater scream that your Instagram feed is filled with The Perfect Sunday Instagrams.
Let me guess, your bag is filled with the following: a Macbook, a leather-bound notepad that only has writing on the first page, random bows, a pair of non-prescription glasses, and an issue of Kinfolk that you’ve been trying to plow through for the last three weeks. We fucking get it, you love succulents and listen to Feist. Stop making everyone at the coffee shop fall in love with you.
“Just an espresso, please.”
Go be a pretentious asshole elsewhere, man. What are you trying to prove? .
Image via YouTube