On my days off, so many times I feel as though I waste them. Those precious hours of freedom are so few and far between I am never quite sure how to capitalize on them. Most days, when I’m not working, I sit around thinking about all the things I could do, but I never actually do anything, until the last few hours before I go to bed, where I tear around my apartment cleaning and scrubbing. While starting the work week with a spotless apartment does make me feel productive, I can’t help but have the overwhelming sense that I am wasting the rest of my time.
So, on this precious day off, I packed up my laptop and headed to Starbucks, to at least get a couple of posts written for you, my lovely followers, before I start my work week. I had originally planned on writing a post about my recent outfit, as clothes are my true passion, but as I sit here and breathe in the aroma of coffee beans and the sickly-sweet smell of cinnamon rolls, I let the conversations around me filter in. It truly amazes me how one little establishment, that began in 1971 in Seattle, Washington, could turn into this massive franchise that somehow manages to not only dominate the market, but also bring each individual in, and make them feel a connection in some strange way.
This is the thing I love about Starbucks, how it attracts everyone; it does not matter who or what you are, you can all unite over a variety of beverages your local barista will craft for you. From the ancient gentlemen sitting in front of me, who I have no doubt recently discovered the magic of a latte, even venturing so far as to order a Sugar Free Vanilla with Skim Milk and one Sweet and Low Latte, to the young boy I assume is a law student, because honestly who else could have that much to study when the semester is just beginning? The usually sharp contrast of a fully-tattooed man sitting a table away from a prim and proper soccer mom, complete with her pedicured toes and nude spanks barely peeking out of her sheath dress, is not even unexpected in this place. I, too, sit here, between a young Indian woman with terrible handwriting, and a bespectacled African American meeting with another gentleman that I would equate to Shaq in size, and I, a very, very pale stereotypical white girl, look just as in place at Starbucks as everyone else. It’s times like these that I can appreciate the magic of America; while we may be indulging in overly-expensive plastic cups of coffee, we are all united in our love for this, and we all belong here. Starbucks is not for a specific gender or race; we can all appreciate the taste and community, and we all sit here and go about our unique business while our neighbor does the exact same thing. We all belong. Starbucks, in a strange way, brings us all together.