The Coffee Paradox

I found myself in trouble yesterday. Then it was that I found myself at a coffee house — one of those “upscale” places you know? The kind of place where you walk in and feel you should be reading Dostoevsky while spending the equivalent of your phone bill. Either way, I’m standing in line pretending to be one of them, not knowing that I’m seconds away from a decision that will change my life indefinitely — fine, at least my morning. I arrive at the counter and the barista, clearly someone who’s had more training in coffee than I will ever receive in anything for the rest of my life, looks up at me, “What can I get for you today?”

I just stand there. My brain just kind of shuts down, like, hmm. And on then hits me the pressing question of my life: “What do you want for coffee?”

I’m here, and it feels like I’ve been given the keys to a Lamborghini and I have no clue how to drive it.

I look at the menu, and it’s like I’m reading some ancient manuscript. Then comes a “Flat White” that I can only picture being lectured by some New York hipster looking over his tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. There’s a “Nitro Cold Brew” that I deem the energy drink even NASA would give a thumbs-up to. And the “Cortado to hell” — don’t even get me started. I don’t know what this is, but it’s a name that would suggest some kind of dance I would have to be insane to bust out at a wedding. And then finally I order, “Just a plain coffee, please.” I haven’t been out there living life on the edge, I suppose. I'm an adult, aren't I? A black coffee would suffice. No frills. No names that seem to read like a French vocabulary exercise. Just, “I don’t want fancy, I want caffeine.”

And the barista leans in, and as if I am going to like, tell her some amazing secret and is like, “Do you want it hot or iced?”

I blink.

Hot or cold? It’s 45 outside and it’s 7am. You know when you just woken up, and all of a sudden have that moment of lucidity, that everything will be just fine? Yeah, this was my crisis moment. Do I want something hot and receive that warm, fuzzy, I’m a grown woman and I’ve got my life together feeling, or do I want something iced and I’ll act too cool to care about the temperature? I thus answer: “Uh, iced, I guess?”

The barista then doesn’t even flinch and goes, “Oat milk, almond milk, or milk?

Heck, I don't even know what's all this about anymore, but here is a milk farm now.

I didn’t realize even what I was supposed to choose a type of milk. The only milk that I knew I could buy when I was a kid was milk, and it came in a carton. And now I'm faced with the choice of oat milk, which is something you'd put in a granola bar, almond milk, which I actually thought was just for the allergy victims, versus regular milk, which makes me think of the Stone Age at my age today. So I choose oat milk. It just sounds. classy. And I’m like, “Or this is what adults do. “Adults put oat milk in coffee.’” I'm a sophisticated adult. But then two minutes later, the barista leans over and asks me, deadpan, “Do you want it sweetened?”

Now I'm nervous. This isn’t purchasing coffee, this is signing a mortgage. Sweetened? What are they even referring to? Don't they automatically just put the sugar in my coffee? What if I mess this up? What if I get the drink too sweet, and I’m like one of those kid-trying-to-be-grows-up things that orders the drink like the kid I am?

I breathe in, and I’m like, “Just okay. Sweetened."

And then the barista throws me a second curve ball: “Would you like it with caramel, vanilla or hazelnut syrup?”

I simply wanted coffee. Coffee! Why do they all suddenly get to have flavors? Do you see an individual that is capable of making such decisions at 7 a.m.? I’m not even awake enough yet to tell you my name, let alone decide what syrup I’d like. I fumble and stammer, “Um, vanilla?”

At this stage, I’ve gone down the rabbit hole. I’m busily nodding along while the barista recites options: extra foam, extra hot, extra this, extra that. It's like I’m buying a car. It’s a coffee, not a high-end car!

And, of course, my drink is waiting for me. I stroll over to retrieve it, and as I’m leaving, I sort of feel like I’ve survived a corporate takeover. That’s mean — just let me have my premium oat milk, vanilla, iced coffee and I’m off.

But as I sit here drinking it, I must say I know what you’re thinking: It does not taste a single bit different than any other cup I’ve ever had, but now I’m $7 poorer and aware that I’m a new member of some elite club I never wanted to join in the first place.

I learned a valuable lesson that day: from now on I’m just going to the gas station and getting a $1 coffee. It is the easiest thing in the world, but hey, it is worth it. And at this point, to be honest, I think I need it.