I knew Tuesday was going to be an electoral blood bath. Americans– in the typical American way– were going to vote against the party in power, and attempt to restore a bipartisan federal structure to its former glory. They would cast their ballots on behalf of Tea Party candidates just to make a statement: Obama, your change isn’t happening fast enough, and instead of giving you a full term to make some progress we are going to party like it’s 1776.
And while a part of me secretly was grateful for a restoration to balance, I also knew that electing conservative Republicans– rather than moderates– would create greater political chasms, in place of a bipartisan bridge. Given this realization, I knew I needed a latte, and in vente form.
I dragged my favorite wandering Asian gnome– Allison– on a Starbucks adventure. Bundled up in our latest winter threads, we made the trek into the not-too-distant center of town, counting the seconds until we would be reunited with our drug of choice: the Almighty latte.
However, G-d, in His all powerful manner, got in the way of my addiction. As soon as we entered the establishment, the barista– recognizing me as an all too familiar regular– shouted, “Yaffa, both of our latte machines are broken. We can’t make any lattes today!”
I paused, confused, frightened, uncertain of the future. I had never considered the possibility of a dysfunctional latte machine, let alone one completely out of order. And at 12.30 in the afternoon, I was in desperate need of a caffeine fix I would normally procure at 9.30.
However, I am a Wellesley Woman Who Will Procure Her Caffeine, and so I asked my favorite little Gnome if she would be willing to embark on a slightly longer journey to the Starbucks across town, where I hoped and prayed the latte machines were brewing at full force. She, aware of my addiction and in full support of perpetuating it, agreed.
We traversed a terrain of multi-million dollar houses covered in the requisite fall foliage; we battled a barrage of yoga moms disposing of half the contents of their reduced fat blueberry muffins; we even zigzaged across a few roads not intended for pedestrian thoroughfare.
But in the end, we succeeded. And as a reward to myself, I ordered a vente with a triple shot of espresso. I knew I would need the energy for the long journey back to campus; a journey, which involved the same basic aforementioned obstacles, but with a rejuvenated sense of self-worth. They say happiness cannot be bought, but after my latte-driven madness, I am convinced that the proverb should be modified: Happiness cannot be bought in anything but a Starbucks coffee cup.