This morning it occurred to me as I was brushing my teeth that I hadn’t a clue what I was going to wear. That’s unusual, right there. Normally, it gives me a grand sense of security to have my outfit planned to the undergarments and socks. I don’t have a chart or anything, but I usually have a loose mental fashion agenda of the next day if not the following few days.
I think it harkens back to my childhood when I had a very small cache of clothes and needed to plan each day of the week carefully so that I wouldn’t repeat something during a given week. I had exactly five pairs of pants, including one pair of dressy pants that I detested. I usually recirculated my Monday jeans on Friday. What is more, it was a very complicated process because those horrible 1980’s striped jeans were in vogue, as well as the patterned shirts, therefore I couldn’t wear a pair of striped jeans with a checked shirt or whatnot. It gave me a great deal of stress and probably resulted in the period of time between 18 and 24 that I like to call The Black Years, wherein every single item I purchased was a solid black or bright white. Even now, most of my clothing is black, white, red or blue if you count my jeans.
Thus, as I flossed, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I could pull together an outfit without a problem. I had jackets I could wear over any of my plethora of white shirts. But wait… they were out being laundered. I also have several pair of black trousers. I would find something. It would be ok. Then I went back into the bedroom where Esteban slumbered and Tilly had claimed my side of the bed as her own. (She’s Single White Femaling me. Seriously. She claims each and every place I sleep in or sit upon. If I get up from the sofa, I return and have to hoist a 18-pound cat out of the way.) I spied my acid green panties in the drawer. Awesome. I would wear those with my acid green bra and my acid green turtleneck with a black cardigan. Brilliant.
After selecting the appropriate pair of black pants and then putting on a pair of black socks because my feet were freezing, I went back to my lingerie drawer. No acid green bra. Not anywhere. Ok. I could wear taupe. Taupe is an acceptable and sometimes necessary substitution for matching lingerie. It was mentally acceptable. Besides, the panties would still match.
But there was no taupe. No taupe? I have like 14 taupe ones! I searched through the jumble of laundry baskets, the clean ones, the dirty one, the one containing shirts that must go to the cleaners and jeans which must be patched. Nothing. I had several black ones though, but if I wore a black bra, then it would show through the turtleneck. GAH!
I freestyled and found a black t-shirt over which I threw on my charcoal cardigan. It was imperfect. Only after I tied my shoes did I remember that I was still wearing the acid green panties. And not a stitch of acid green anywhere else on my person. The horror. The HORROR! I should have stripped the offensive article from my body as soon as I realized it. I had time. There was no excuse other than the unwillingness to succumb completely to my irrational sense of matching. I feel all discombobulated now, surreal and out of focus. As though everything is tilted slightly to the left.
(cue swelling music and technicolor sunset in background)
As God as my witness, I’ll never go mismatched again!
(Weetabix clutches a taupe bra in her hand. Fade to black)
I tooled through SBux this morning to get my Venti Vanilla Nonfat Mocha. It’s taken me a couple of visits to reacquaint myself with the Starbucks vernacular. Much painfully inept ordering ensued.
“Hi, I’ll have a fat free vanilla venti mocha please”
“One venti vanilla skim mocha!” The barristas would shout back, passive-aggressively chastising me for being ignorant in the ways of the Bean Elite.
Then I’d try again the next time. “A venti vanilla skim mocha, please.”
“One venti mocha with vanilla, nonfat.” They’d confirm.
The next time: “I’d like a venti mocha vanilla nonfat please.”
“One thin mulatto sans whip!”
Huh?
They’re toying with me. Barrista bastards.
Unsurly Girl greeted me last week. When I drove up to the window, we both exclaimed “HEY!!!!!!!!” in unison and smiled. I sensed a little apprehension, though, like the morning after sex with an exboyfriend. Would this be a new beginning? Did I realize what I had been missing and would I return for good? Or was I just using her for an easy caffeine fix? I threw an offhanded “I only like warm drinks in the cold weather. I drink Diet Coke in the summer.” but we both knew it was just lip service and I wouldn’t be around for the long haul, come rain or come shine. Even with the emotional baggage, I like Unsurly Girl. She seems to like me. She used to comp me drinks, although those disappeared along with my loyalty. Perhaps I should explain that I haven’t been seeing other barristas and I have come to understand the SBux monkey on my back.
Thus, this morning I endeavored again. “Venti vanilla nonfat mocha.”
It was Barrista Barbie. “Venti Vanilla Mocha with skim milk.” She sneered back. I think they delight in making me feel as though I can’t handle ordering my coffee.
When I arrived at the window. Barrista Barbie asked if I wanted whipped cream. No, of course not. Why put a dollop of fat on top of a nonfat mocha? It made no sense.
Unsurly Girl brought me the drink and then gave me a conspiratorial aside “I told her no whip, she didn’t listen. I have a question for you though. What happened to your music? You always had the rocking tunes. Your car used to thump.”
I had Michelle Branch playing softly in the background. I took a breath. I then stammered something about how I have a more stressful job now that starts later in the day so I don’t need to wake myself up with funky tunes and I just wasn’t in the mood for loud stuff right now but rather more mellow stuff.
But really, I think it’s seasonal. When Sbux first opened and I began my relationship with Unsurly Girl and Starbucks Guy (sniffle!), it was late January and early February. I was sick of darkness. I was reacting to the increase in daylight. I was hyper. I wanted spring. I had more energy. Fall and early winter are about winding down and introspection. And perhaps it was a not-so-subtle attempt to show Starbucks Guy how very cool and hip I was because I listened to Nine Inch Nails at quarter to seven in the dark winter mornings. But all of this was too much to relay in a minute conversation at a drive through window. And some things are better left unsaid between you and your barrista.
