Too school for cool - the coffee chronicles

Recently I've come to the discovery that I am not cool enough for coffee shops.  I enjoy coffee as much as any suburbanite with a liberal arts bachelors, and I know the basic concepts - you'd think I'd be able to get by.  My parents made a pot of Maxwell House every morning until we moved to North Carolina, when they started drinking Folgers (for reasons still unknown to me), but I never drank the stuff until I went to college.  One day a lovely woman who shall be known as "A" shared with me a bottle of what we came to refer to as "pure evil."  Coffee is easy to drink when it's drowned in cream, sugar, and chemical preservatives.  I used to drink one while downing a donut.  Oh, college.  The reckless years.

But soon that wasn't enough.  I transitioned to hot mochas with a fluffy pile of whipped cream on top, plus two chocolate covered espresso beans if I had the very nice barista at the Franklin St. Caribou.  That was just a short step away from actual coffee, which I started in half mugs with a healthy dose of flavored creamer and then moved to about two cups a day of the hard stuff with a splash of half and half.

In a place where everyone wants to "meet for coffee," it's imperative to have conversational coffee-fluency. My non-coffee-drinking partner has the misfortune of making coffee runs for the staff in her office, and it has become apparent she has no idea what she's doing.  This has resulted in hilarious stories of her attempting to siphon the last dredges of a stale Au Bon Pain brew for Very Important People Who Require Coffee or getting ruffled when the cashier at Caribou asks her what size she wants her non-fat lattes to be.  ("I don't know - that's all they told me!"  "But what size do you want?"  "Oh...um, small please.")  In mainstream coffee-land, I'm set.  I can hold my own in the Caribous and ABPs of this world.

But the elite local coffeehouses are a different story.  They make me feel the same as divey breweries with $14 beers and boutique burger joints where you chalk up ten bucks for some ground beef and aged cheddar - bewildered, insecure, and staring blankly at my empty wallet.  I leave those places wondering if I was part of something cool or if I just got punked.

How do I know coffee has reached an unbelievable eliteness?  Because I am elite as hell, and even I know I'm being outclassed.  I'm telling you, I have reached a whole other level of bourgy when Starbucks, the epitome of wealthy white people's adoration and angst, becomes the "safe and familiar" coffee shop.

In case this is sounding like a white whine of sorts ("I demand to feel normal at the elitest of coffee shops!  Why can't I fit in everywhere?!" #whitewhine), I would like to sharpen the analytic lens on these spaces and my own insecurities.  Here are what I have determined are the necessary requirements for belonging into elite coffee culture:

• The right eyewear and shoes (although alternative footwear are also acceptable).
• Apple products. Not necessarily this, because that's really for the 'bucks crew, but probably this, and definitely this.
• Being white - this helps considerably, since you're almost guaranteed to be served by one of your own.  Black people are a plus since their presence reflects positively on the super down white people, but only if they are the right kind of Black people.  Asians with appropriate eyewear and shoes are, of course, welcome.  Especially if they are from the Bay.
• Seriousness about latte art. This is not to be cute, people.  It is an art.
• A high level of coffee literacy; i.e., knowing the difference between a flat white and a latte; the precise brewing temperature for oolong; a preference for smokey or honey notes; the ability to discern between national beans.
• Time.  Drip coffee takes 2 minutes, the press pot requires meticulous upper arm and palm exertion, and that citrus eucalyptus tea ought to steep for 180 seconds, too.  If they hand you a sand timer, you better know what to do with it.  DON'T MESS IT UP.
• Benjamins. Because all of this awesomeness will cost you.

If you have these components, mixed with a healthy dose of cynicism and judgment, you are golden in counter-cultural coffee land.  Since I'm pretty sure my flip phone and Keds would have been acceptable as "ironic" substitutes, I would have had it made except for all of my sociological training.  ("Confound it!!  If only I weren't so aware of how I'm perpetuating social inequalities from which I benefit, this macchiato would go down like butter!" #whitewhine.) 

Coffee shops are this intense locus of class and race culture heavily underpinned by oblivious hipster sensibilities, and it makes me feel a little woozy to go inside.  I love supporting non-chain coffee shops, but sometimes all the pretension and full-frontal whiteness is just plain embarrassing.  If we really wanted to create an alternative coffee culture, you would have thought we'd make it affordable and not have a lock to the bathroom.

At the root of all of this, however, is likely my own privileged sense of entitlement to belonging in any white-centered space.  That, or I'm just as cynical and Judgey McJudgersteiny as the folks who inhabit these spaces ("Ugh! I am sooo over local coffee shops! #whitewhine)...in which case, perhaps I'm just as white as I am socialized to be.

The skinny on skinny dipping

Public nudity.  Never really been my thing, know what I'm saying?  Like most women, the thought of public disrobing and prancing around in my birthday suit is sort of like running across a bear in the woods: you're pretty sure the bear sees you and you're pretty sure this is where it all ends.

But I have bared all, dear readers, and I am going to tell you why you should, too.

This all started when my partner had a Groupon for Spa World.  She had been before with a cadre of friends and had such a great time that when she saw the online deal, she jumped on it and asked me if I wanted to go.  Um...(nervous laughter)...let me think about it.

So a couple of weeks passed, and I didn't think very much about it at all.  In fact, I did an excellent job not thinking about it.  But then my hand was forced: the expiration date was coming up, and I had to decide - if I didn't want the free pass, she'd give it to someone else.

First came instant panic: Noo!  This will be awful!  I don't want to be naked!!!  Then came instant regret: Noo!  Missing this will be awful!!  I don't want to be so insecure!!!  It's surprisingly easy to berate myself for not doing something I haven't not done yet.

In some ways, my resistance caught me off guard.  I've certainly had my own struggles with body image, as reality doesn't necessarily match aspiration.  I've been very lucky, however, in that I never really embraced a femme aesthetic, and that has made it much easier for me to be easier on myself.  You can't fail at something you aren't trying that hard to do.  Soooometimes I have that pinched-inside feeling that I ought to wear make-up or exfoliate or thread my brows or something...sometimes.  Not watching TV helps.  But to do the naked thing, you do have to have a sense of yourself as being okay the way you are.  In my more self-righteous days, I can say that I'm generally at peace with myself.  Especially when my clothes are securely buttoned on.

I've also been extraordinarily lucky to have a partner who is maybe the most body-accepting woman on the planet.  It's pretty easy to be naked with someone who finds absolutely nothing wrong with your nakedness.  Being with someone who loves your flaws - or doesn't seem to consider your flaws flaws - makes you think your own perspective might be a wee bit warped.

But even for a generally healthy, feminist-minded woman like myself, the thought of taking it all off unearthed deeply rooted body shame.  You don't even know how DEEP that shit is until you are tested!  To make peace with your imperfections by yourself in front of your mirror is one thing; to take it on a group outing is this whole other level of "self-love."  I just wasn't sure I had it in me.  My mind began racing with various scenarios that all more or less played out like this: 1) people would stare at me, 2) people would judge me, and 3) my head would explode.

Damn it.  Why couldn't it be enough to just love myself when I was all by myself?

A few things swayed me.  One was that I didn't want to let my socialized insecurity prevent me from doing something I honestly wanted to do.  I had always wished I could be the kind of woman who could waltz into a room full of naked people in the buff - now was my chance to dance, and I knew I would regret it if I let internalized body shame win.  Also, one thing Eve had written in a list of things I should do before I turned 21 included skinny dipping.  (In fact, I believe she wrote it in all caps, so it looked more like this: "SKINNY DIPPING!!!!!!!!")  Now a third of the way into 25, clearly I missed the time deadline.  But maybe it time to say, "f this s, I do what I want," and take my clothes off.

And it was free.  So that was a pretty strong motivating factor.  I know I sure as hell wouldn't have paid someone for the opportunity to be extremely mortified and vulnerable among strangers.

I made up my mind to go.  What did I have to lose, but my dignity?  That's pretty much gone already.  So two weeks ago, we packed up some magazines and piled into the car.  As we drove out deeper into Virginia, the panic started to grow in my stomach.  By the time we got into the parking lot, I was definitely doubting my decision.  If you do this for the first time, I am sure you will also seriously reconsider once you pull up to a strip mall with "SPA WORLD" plastered across the front of a beige brick building.

But as soon as we walked inside, I realized it was all going to be okay.  There was a line of people who were all here to naked it up with me.  They were all cool with it - surely I could be, too.  After the Groupon checked out, I got a key for a cubby to put my shoes.  There.  Shoes off.  That's not too weird.  Even Mr. Rogers did that every afternoon on children's television.

Then the people with vulvas and the people with penises when into different locker rooms.  (Spa World is absolutely not trans, intersexual, or gender-queer friendly...in fact, they judge you based on your appearance as to whether you are a "boy" or "girl," which is what is stamped on your receipt and determines which locker your key will open.)  While there are obvious limitations to gender segregation, it eased my foray into nudity...just a bunch of folks with parts like mine.  No surprises.

Once in the locker room, there is nothing left to do but bare it all.  The hardest part was walking into the pool room, where nakedness is required - for some reason, it feels like a debut into a nudist colony, even though no one is really looking at you.

And that's just it - no one is really looking at you.  You realize that everyone is just there to soak in the baths and do their thing and have a nice time, just like you.  And there is something about a space full of naked women - from pudgy little girls to wrinkly old women, skinny women and fat women, Black women and white women and Asian women (actually, lots and lots of Asian and Asian-American women, since Spa World is a Korean spa), that makes you realize you feel, in a way you never knew you could feel, free.

Being naked in a multi-generational, multi-racial, multi-size space is deeply affirming in a way I could not have predicted.  Seeing what we all really do look like under our clothes makes so much more apparent the unattainable expectation of what we are supposed to look like.  It also makes apparent how very imperfect we all are...imperfect just like everyone else.  I fit right in because there isn't a standard at all - we are all human looking, real looking, looking like we've given birth or walked up a lot of hills or eaten a lot of cake or laughed at a lot of good jokes.  We all look like we've lived.

There was still the remnants of body shame happening, of course.  Some women go to the bathroom and close the door to disrobe, and then only go to the poultice rooms, a mixed-gender are where you wear an orange uniform.  I saw one woman only remove the towel she had wrapped tightly around her as she rushed into the pool.  Interestingly, I don't think I would have noticed her at all if she hadn't had the towel on.  We all kind of blur together when we're naked.  You stand out more when you are trying to hide.

A few minutes in, I turned to my partner beside me in the spa bath and said, "This is so awesome!"  I couldn't remember what I had been so afraid of anymore - at least, it was hard to believe how I could have ever been afraid of something so easy.  Why is that the place where you think you will be the most insecure is the place you feel is one of the safest to be you?

Now I'm trying to convince other women to try it, and the reactions have been mixed...actually, I've heard quite a bit of "Um...(nervous laughter)...let me think about it."  It's okay, though, because I was there once.  I know.  It takes time to take it all off.