I hate coffee, but I like myself

From time to time, especially in college, I was hit with an overwhelming desire to try to be someone much more interesting than I actually was. I wanted to wear funky hats and light, flow-y shirts; pierce my eyebrow and pull off super-short haircuts; smoke cigarettes and drink coffee, black. I wanted to be mysterious, and different, and bohemian. Sort of like a late-nineties version of a hipster.

I think those were the desires that led me to Kafein, the local coffee shop and cafe, at the beginning of my sophomore year. I applied for a job preparing and serving food and drinks, and my carefully-chosen coffeehouse outfit must have worked because I got it before I had even finished the interview.

When I showed up for my training, I learned two things very quickly: 1. all of my new coworkers were much, much cooler than I was; and 2. prepping and serving food and cleaning up a cafe kitchen were not, even a little bit, glamorous.

I stayed behind the bar for the first few weeks on the job, and I was happy to have the distance from the customers. Slicing veggies, arranging hummus plates, and making shakes were tasks I mastered quickly. Hot beverages and I were not such good friends, though, and out of fear of the extremely picky coffee-drinkers yelling at me for being too slow or not preparing their lattes just right, I typically let the more seasoned coffee-makers handle those orders. Generally, though, aside from the way my clothes smelled and feet ached when I got done working, I thought it was a pretty decent job.

Until the incident.

A dreaded lunch shift that ended my honeymoon with Kafein, squashed my dreams of being a hip, coffeehouse waitress (the word barista didn't exist yet), and has since entertained many a friend as I've recounted the story.

Here's what happened:

Scene: Lunchtime, coffee shop. Evanston, Illinois. Fall, 1997.

I'm working behind the bar, as usual, but it's just me and one of the managers holding down the fort. Around 11:45, it starts to get busy. And then it gets busier. And busier. At noon, the manager has to go out back to take a delivery, and he asks me to not only continue preparing all of the lunch orders that have come in, but to go out into the sea of young business-type lunchers and college students and take more orders.

All of a sudden I'm up to my eyeballs in sandwiches and salads, veggie plates and soups, flavored sodas and milkshakes. Milkshakes! It's like everyone in the place wants one, and wants it quickly. And if you've ever had to make a milkshake, you'll know that it's not the most speedy process, especially when you can only make two at a time. An order of five at one table? Watch my head spin.

But I manage to stay relatively calm - making sure I get all the orders, taking water to the tables, devising an efficient method for tackling the shakes. And everything seems okay - I'm plugging away, the manager is still out back, the tables are full, people are still coming in but no one has complained about the service yet...

I finally finish - I finish the milkshakes, and I'm so happy and proud of myself for getting five done relatively quickly. None of them are melting yet, and they look great - sweet, creamy deliciousness.

I can't wait to serve them and as I look at the customers perched on the edges on their booth seats, they look equally excited to eat them - quickly tucking their paperwork back into folders, pushing the laptops toward the center of the table. But as I'm setting the first shake on the table, my happy-to-be-of-service grin meeting their I'm-about-to-eat-ice-cream smiles, it happens.

The weight of the tray carrying the other four shakes shifts, just a little, and I think they know what's going to happen before I do because I'm still smiling when the first one hits.

Splat. Vanilla. Splat. Mocha. Splat. Chocolate, chocolate.

Four milkshakes now covering laptops, lap-tops, and my flow-y, white, coffeehouse shirt.



I went back for a few shifts after that, but then I made up some story about a family emergency and never even picked up my last paycheck. I just ran, and ran, and ran.

The problem was, it wasn't me. It wasn't me at all. I hated the taste of coffee, the smell of coffee, and the person I was trying to be by working at a coffeehouse. Besides, the eyebrow ring looked incredibly, incredibly stupid. Both times I had it done.

I'd like to think I've grown a lot since 1997 - for one I no longer feel the need to make up elaborate stories to avoid perceived conflict. I'd also like to think that my days of wishing I were someone different are over. I still will occasionally spill stuff on other people, but I'm confident in my ability (and God's ability) to always clean up the messes.

Number Fourteen: BEING ME. I can't sing or spell, but I smell pretty good. I guess I'll take it.