For some reason I’ve developed into an emotional sponge. When other people are upset, I get upset. Even though I got up late and didn’t feel that well this morning, I liked the day. It was rainy, chilly, and overcast. That means books, movies, blanket, tea or coffee, and no obligations to do anything for any reason.
Around 1:30 I wandered out of the house to get some caffeine. I went to work to make myself and drink and both people working there were dragging around, complaining about stuff. One was understandable; Audrey’s family cat had been hit and killed by a car. This depressed me. Matt just didn’t want to be there.
One woman who works for our office came in and wanted a drink made. We have a big meeting there tonight and she was getting some coffee for herself before going in to get things started. Rather than ask nicely, though, she just came back behind the counter while I was making my own drink and said “I want a big iced mocha,” then turned around to continue talking to Matt. I clearly wasn’t at work because I’m currently bumming around in pants that are too big, an old sweatshirt, and a Chicago’s Pizza t-shirt that I think I’ve had since high school. So it irritated me that she commanded me to make her drink.
After I made it, she apparently asked Matt “Who was that?” I’ve met the woman at least a dozen times whenever she’s come in for drinks, and she’s usually the Office Employee in charge of picking up morning drinks for everyone who works at the roasting plant. Her comment was clear in meaning “Why is that person whose name I’ve never bothered to learn, and whose face isn’t important enough to me to recall, standing in crappy clothes behind the counter?”
When she left, Audrey and Matt continued to throw themselves dramatically over the store furniture.
Now I’m in a really sour mood and I really don’t want to go to the meeting. I especially do not want to participate in what they’re calling “The Barista Olympics” where we are given a limited amount of time to make one Italian-style cappuccino to perfection, as well as a second drink of our choice. The specialty drinks will be timed, weighed, tasted, and tested for temperature. Our every move will be scrutinized as we grind espresso beans, get the absolutely perfect shot with the right amount of heart, body, and crema, steam and froth the exact right amount of milk, and squirt just enough syrup into another drink.
Meanwhile, none of my clothes fit right, today is my day off, I’m bloated and I have cramps, my skin looks terrible and I really need a haircut. The last thing I want is someone calling criticism “fun.”