My coffee addiction is pure loveliness. I love indulging in a hearty brew, whether it is in the morning, afternoon, or evening. The unique swirl of tastes dance around my tongue upon first sip and a smile breaks across my face. What makes my obsession with coffee even better is the coffee shops that come with it. These places are the epicenter of what I believe to be is creativity, literature, and small talk. Like small Paris, you find all sorts of present day beatniks huddled in shadowy corners sipping boiling hot black coffee, reading the New York Times or working in their sketch books.
So it is in these coffee shops that I find myself on a daily basis, sometimes for the coffee, sometimes for the people watching, but always for the atmosphere. The smell of coffee is also alluring, if not calming. Standing in a long line waiting for my turn to put in my coffee order, behind sorority girls who no doubt order small mountains of sugar, chocolate chips, and whip and professionals who can afford to buy pastries, I find that I have all the time in the world to mull over my life’s problems and the world’s problems at large. Some reveal that their thinking spots are found in the shower, but for me I find it in coffee lines.
My mind wanders and roams around my conscious and subconscious being, unveiling new revelations, reminders, and good thoughts. I think that if the line was long enough I could easily assuage all problems. I think that I think too much. My brain is always super active, which is sometimes a blessing and sometimes my downfall. With all the uncertainty that I am facing I can feel my mind desperately searching for something to think about that my conscious being can control. What stirs in my mind whenever this comes about is usually my health, my body size, and my relationships. All three factors are things that I feel like I can control. I can control whether or not I exercise; I can control whether I wash my hands, or detect diseases that have not yet been found by those in the medical profession that I am quite sure that I have contracted (hypochondriasis is a curse); I can control how available that I make myself , what I look like, and who I interact with in the hopes of finding a boyfriend.
My coffee line revelation was that these things that I ruminate are not within my control. They are not. I am going to go crazy if I keep harping on these things. It was standing in that serpent-esque line yesterday morning that I decided to drop all of these worries right there on the floor besides the large wall of loose leaf teas. My mess, my worries, my concerns, fell to the dirty brown floor and I stepped over them and have not looked back since. I let go. It is freeing.
There, in the coffee line, one is in the loveliest form of limbo, one is neither a customer, nor is one just a mere passerby.
Life is the quintessential form of limbo, one is neither in control, nor is one completely devoid of control.
It is all a matter of how tightly we grasp the baggage that has burdened us. Or how we drop the baggage and leave it.