Oh god. The one day, I actually regret wearing my everyday/fat/period/pregnancy cut-off sweats.
I am waiting in line at Starbucks because these assholes have me hooked on their green tea lattes.
Please don’t tell me how much sugar is in this stuff – it will only add to my food rage. I know it’s not good for me. I’ve consumed more sugar drinking these stupid lattes in the past four months than I have ever consumed in my life.
And I adore cookies. And pie. And caramel corn. Mmmmmm – caramel corn.
I hear the door open and watch the head of every male in the store turn. Of course, I turn my head as well because I’m a follower like that.
In walks my basic nightmare: young, tall, athletically built, model-like, perky everything, woman that’s dressed in a simple pair of jeans and t-shirt and looks like she just rolls out of bed looking perfect.
I stare down at my own t-shirt and realize there is an old oatmeal stain on the collar from who knows when and when was the last time this thing was washed?
My hands hook around the collar to hide the stain like I’m Benjamin Franklin about to espouse on the benefits of kites and shit.
The young woman stands behind me in line and I basically look like mini Shrek standing next to her.
My self-esteem plummets and flattens to the ground, like that piece of old gum you step on in the parking lot.
The barista nods at me. We don’t even exchange words anymore since he knows why I’m here.
I shuffle to the right and await my cup of green powdered strength.
But then the nightmare barely utters the word mocha and the barista becomes Mr. Personality. He is smiling and laughing and asking her if she wants to try the coconut milk instead of the soy milk because it is truly delightful.
Delightful? Mr. Personality has never asked if I wanted to substitute my soy milk with anything and now I’m feeling left out and pissed. I am in grade school/middle school/high school all over again and am I having an anxiety attack right now?
When my drink is ready, Mr. Personality slides it across the counter with no acknowledgement.
I look at the cup and my drink is iced, not what I ordered. I’m about to complain, launch into all sorts of you this and you that, but I’m tired and thirsty and just want to get out of here.
Sighing, I walk over to grab a few napkins because it is inevitable I will spill.
As I’m leaving, I hear the nightmare shriek: is this whole milk that you put in my mocha?
And suddenly, I don’t feel so left out anymore.