Whole latte love

Thanks to the, um, character-building feedback I received on my undeniably questionable choice to buy Crocs, I've decided to stick with a confessional theme this week. We can call it "Shame Week." It will be like "Shark Week," only much, much scarier.

So, I've been a regular coffee drinker for probably 10 years. (I have, however, led an almost-exclusively decaffeinated lifestyle for the past five years. I'll save that story for another post). I was never a frou-frou coffee drinker. In fact, I was baffled that people would pay upwards of $3 for a cup of coffee (especially as we were all complaining that a gallon of gas cost that much). I was born and raised in West Virginia, and designer coffee just seems incredibly indulgent to someone with a blue-collar background.

I would occasionally go to Starbucks, but usually just once or twice around the holidays. I was a sucker for the gingerbread latte, and those red holiday cups are just so festive. But I still found the whole thing sort of intimidating and elitist. A small is a tall? Grande sounds big, but that's only the medium. Skinny? Extra hot? No foam? WTF? I need a coffee house dictionary.

When my son started going to daycare just over two years ago, I began stopping at Sunoco on my way home for a cup of coffee. Yes, I was buying my coffee at a gas station (and this isn't even the confessional part). It was actually quite tasty, and if you brought your own mug, you got a discount! I even purchased my travel coffee mug from the Sunoco. I'd march in there every morning with my silver mug in hand, happy to know that I wasn't adding a paper cup to a landfill that day.

But just over a year ago, I walked in and saw a new guy making the coffee. I poured my cup of decaf as usual, and then went to the counter to pay. New Sunoco worker came over to ring me up, and I froze in horror as he stopped in front of me. The man had dandruff the size of tumbleweeds all over his blue Sunoco smock. I fought my gag reflex long enough to pay the poor man, and hightailed it out of there. The coffee went directly into my kitchen sink, and I haven't been back since.

Coincidentally, right around the time of the Sunoco incident, a new Starbucks had just opened less than a mile from my house. I decided to check it out. At first, I would just order a decaf coffee, but frankly, I think Starbucks' regular coffee bites. I could attempt to chronicle in some detail my rapid decline into Starbucks hell, but suffice to say, I went from ordering "a small decaf coffee" to an "iced venti decaf skinny vanilla latte, light ice" in a matter of days.

Yes, I’m one of those people now.

Not only do I have an annoying order, but I have to have it every day. I think about it every night before I go to bed. And it gets worse. After a month or so of having a consistently regular order, the Starbucks workers (I am refraining from calling them baristas, to maintain some level of dignity) started to know my order as soon as I walked in. Part of me thought, “This is cool. I am like Norm on Cheers. And if there is a long line, my drink is ready as soon as I pay, because they’ve already started it for me.” Another part of me thought, “This is scary. I am obviously here way too much. I have been sucked into the evil corporate machine. Fight the man and run the other way!”

But I didn’t. I’m still there every day. I own a Starbucks Gold Card (which paid for itself quickly, no doubt). I’ve actually had assorted friends and relatives pick up a drink there for me, AND THE STARBUCKS PEOPLE KNOW IT’S FOR ME EVEN WHEN I’M NOT THERE. Creepy. My habit costs me more than $100 a month.

I made an attempt to patronize a local, independently owned coffee shop recently, because that really feels like more my style. But you know what? It was more expensive, and it didn’t even taste as good.

I’m a slave to Starbucks, and I’ve grown to accept it. I don’t drink alcohol (as anyone who has seen me after one cocktail can attest to), and I don’t have any expensive hobbies. So Starbucks is my hobby. It could be worse.