“Wait, you mean you don’t drink coffee AT ALL?” “Nope.” “How do you… do things???” “I just do them.” “Oh my god, if I don’t have my coffee, let me tell you, I…” And then comes the terrifyingly predictable list of things they wouldn’t be able to do without it: “wake up”, “get going”, “function”, and, again, “poop”.
Look: it hurts. Nobody wants to be the outsider, except C. Thomas Howell, Matt Dillon, Ralph Macchio, etc. But my little (former) secret is I’m judging you right back. You say “I need my coffee”, and there’s something of a brag in there. You flaunt your “addiction”. But you’re not hooked; you just like it. How many times have you been $.20 short of a Grande, and had no choice but to service a dude in the coffee shop bathroom, BEFORE YOU EVEN BUY A COFFEE, WHICH IS SOMETHING THEY STRONGLY FROWN UPON?!?
And yet I’m the one made to feel guilty when I “confess” that I’m not part of the grand caffeinated charade. There’s not jealousy that I’m free of its clutches; there’s suspicion and borderline rancor that I might be so brazen as to not conform via the cup, too. And so I sit outside the clubhouse, waiting for the kids to invite me in. They never do.