Sometimes, through no plan or decision or design, you end up – against your better judgement – sitting in a Starbucks. I should know, I’m in one now, surrounded by screaming children and prententious knobs sipping tall, skinny, gingerbread lattes.
I didn’t plan to be here and I certainly don’t want to stay, but sometimes circumstances conspire against you, and the best course of action is to roll with the punches.
Unfortunately, Starbucks is one of the few places where you can deal with a screaming, hungry child who may have also just shat herself. It’s a testament to what SB employees must have to put up with, but for some reason, the staff don’t bat an eyelid as a haggard-looking, new mother, with a breast hanging out and a smear of baby shit on her jumper, wipes vomit off the furniture while a 15 year-old employee (who someday hopes to rise from cleaner to barrista) gently rocks the baby that made this whole scene possible.
Of course, you know when you leave the house that there’s always a chance you’ll wind up elbow-deep in vanilla latte and breast milk, but you tell yourself “this won’t happen to me” because you want to maintain some illusion of being in control. Unfortunately hoping for the best means that you’re often not prepared for the worst, and it’s for precisely this reason that I’m currently standing in the line at a Starbucks about to ask for some paper towel to clean up the cocktail of body fluid that my daughter has expelled onto one of the armchairs.
That and a tall, skinny, gingerbread, latte… with extra self-loathing.