Dear Friends,
My best friend visited a few weeks ago and we met these two married men out. Of course, they hid their rings in their pockets as per usual bar-etiquette goes. Classy. One of them took some interest in my writing that he never followed through with, and the other told my friend he worked in the coffee business, but that he hates Starbucks and Coffee Bean. “That was the end of our conversation,” my friend later told me. But it reminded me of something, even though the comparison is bit of a stretch. New York is full of cliques – there are some who love Starbucks, some who desperately miss Coffee Bean from the West coast, and some who refuse to drink anything but independent coffee. It’s a lot like politics – who would think individuals would care so much about a Weiner or a bean?
In my industry, the one I don’t totally feel apart of yet, but the one I desperately try to step my way into – we like Starbucks. But I’ll always miss Coffee Bean from LA, and I also like independent coffee shops. What does that mean? That I like everything? That I’m not selective enough? That until I commit to one brand, I will never be admitted into my clique? I hope not. Because the last guy I dated brought me coffee at my door, Starbucks in fact, and we no longer speak. Which means that Starbucks indirectly took a hand in fooling me into thinking that I might have met someone who might fit into my clique, and even worse, my life. I have to say – F you, Starbucks. The next time a boy brings me coffee to my door, I’ll make sure he’s a man before I let him in. And that’s a lesson we all have to learn, don’t we? It can be so hard to see the good from the bad, especially in Manhattan, but “at least we live here” – is the conclusion everyone comes to. Sure you’ve got your Wall Street arrogance and your musicians who then work at investment banks because they can’t afford Manhattan on gigs alone. You’ve got your writers who work hard and quietly, but then you can’t figure out what kind of coffee they drink because if they were at a Starbucks (there are 171 in this city), I think I would have seen them. I have a sixth sense for writers and guys who are good in bed. I recently learned I have to dial down this sixth sense because when you’re 23 years old, it’s better to see dead people than fall for the charm of a young bachelor, or succumb to a person in the literary world who gives false hope.
So life goes, fighting the demons of the coffee industry, dating and trying to find people who believe in you. Until then, the only thing all of us singletons really have is the belief in ourselves. Oh, and all those independent coffee shops on your block that you can walk into without being clique-ified.
Kisses,
Jessica
