I don’t know if I am thrilled or ashamed that the staff at my local Starbucks know both my name and my usual order. On the one hand I always dreamed of being a regular somewhere ever since that one episode of Cheers I sort of watched that one day when I was home sick from school.
But now that I am older I realize that being a regular is more of a testament to having more money than sense than being any real accomplishment.
In the time that I was off work because of my accident I actually thought I had kicked my Starbucks Addiction. 10 weeks without a Grande anything seemed like the perfect cure and I honestly thought that going in after weeks away would be like greeting an old friend, familiar yet somehow uncomfortable, both parties having grown up and grown apart.
But when the first drops of that non-fat chai hit my lips I felt the addiction spring back up far more acute and real to me than ever before.
I honestly wake up every weekday itching for my next fix. On the weekends the shame kicks in again and I am determined that next week I won’t fall prey to the overpriced, waistline thickening deliciousness.
But Monday always finds me back in the lineup desperately clutching my Gold Card and impatiently waiting my turn.
And then the Barista greets me by name (it doesn’t matter which one, they all know me) and asks if I’m having the usual. At this point I usually smile awkwardly, avoid eye contact and hand over my hard earned money in exchange for my next fix.
Sometimes I do this twice in one day.
It’s become ridiculous.
And it has to stop.
On Monday I plan to leave all methods of Payment at home and quit cold turkey. Hopefully my long hidden self-restraint will kick in and I won’t finish the day desperately begging a coworker to lend me five dollars so I can continue by addiction.
Wish me luck, dear reader.
Maybe the pain of withdrawal will help me be a better writer.
Or maybe I’ll just be really bitchy for the next few weeks.