My decisive online persona gave way this afternoon when I stopped into my local Starbucks.
Amazing---I’m able to handle Giant’s rejection so rationally; yet when forced to pick one caffeinated beverage [in an alternate yuppie language] I fall to pieces. Tall, grande, vente? Skim, soy, whole? Oh and to whip or not to whip? Too many questions!
Why [when I could just go to Dunkin’] do I put myself through such an anxiety-ridden ritual? Four words: My. Cute. Barista. Boy.
I know what you’re thinking---and you’re right. It’s shameless.
The truth is most women have some version of this creature in their lives. Whether he runs your office deli, tends bar at your local watering hole, or pumps gas at that station down the street---he works in service, flatters you needlessly and gives you outrageous discounts---just for being you.
“One tall, white chocolate mocha?” he asks with an omnipotent smile.
“With whip” I reply, relieved that he knows enough to suggest my default drink.
We exchange pleasantries, he charges me $1.50 and I’m on my way.
Well---that’s how it usually goes. However, today My Cute Barista Boy had other plans. Today my sugary goodness would only cost me...
“Yeah! I’d love to take you out sometime.”
I couldn’t believe it! Up until this moment, I figured My Cute Barista Boy was generous to every attractive coffee drinker who didn’t verbally abuse him. It never occurred to me that he had a genuine interest in taking me out.
I had to gather my thoughts. I mean, what did I really know about My Cute Barista Boy? He’s 25 and working at Starbucks. No college degree. He wears an earring. He just broke up with someone. Online this would be an open and shut case. But in person…
“Sure, my number is…”
What am I doing? This is insane! Stop, Nice Alex, Stop! You do not date your cute barista boy. You blush modestly as he pretends to slide your credit card through the machine!
But it was too late. My Cute Barista Boy had my digits. All ten of them.
“Aight! I’ll text you this weekend.”
Curse you, Nice Alex. Curse you.