I don’t think I’m a paranoid person, so when I started noticing that my regular Starbucks barista was serving up my grande every morning with snide little comments about about my lifestyle, I began to take them personally.
“I could never sleep so late,” he said as I sauntered in one morning at 11:00. I had come directly from yoga class (the lululemon outfit should have been the giveaway) so perhaps that is why I looked tired.
“Are your kids in camp? All day? All summer? And they like it?” he asked just last week sounding surprised at this obvious display of privilege (Why the surprise? This is the Main Line after all.)
“Happy Friday. But isn’t everyday Friday for you?” he assumed which he shouldn’t have, because, really, everyday is like Saturday for me.
On the rare occasion when I show up without workout clothes and wearing makeup, he goes all out with the compliments.
“You look so beautiful. Are you going to work?” he asks hopefully, and come to think of it, sounds just like my husband.
I’ve been going to this Starbucks since my kids were toddlers. They used to come with me and whine until I bought them chocolate milk and scones. Now I come in alone or with a friend or fellow housewife and just order coffee.
I’ve begun to dread my daily encounter with this barista. I’ve even started getting my coffee elsewhere a few mornings a week.
Why am I allowing this person to make me feel bad about my life? I would love to respond to one of his prying questions with one of my own: “Why are you still working at Starbucks after 6 years?” but, hey, I’m not judgey like that.
I need to be proud of my life. I need to own being a housewife because that’s what I am for the time being. I’m working on it. In the meantime, who wants to meet me at La Columbe for coffee tomorrow morning?
