Torn Between Two Starbucks

I hate making important decisions, so this morning, as I pulled out of my garage, I let the chips fall where they may -- or, as it were, I let the car take me where it would. It chose north, and I was as content as I would have been had it turned the other way, as long as I wasn't forced to choose.

I have felt like a bit of a cad for the past two weeks, sipping my grande half decaf in an alternative Starbucks. It's not just the coffee that's made me feel guilty; it's that in the short span of two weeks I developed a bit of an emotional attachment to the once foreign barristas. Just like the folks at my old haunt, they know my usual order and can even guess at the modifications, depending on the day of the week or the time of day. It doesn't take much to win over my fickle little heart.

Deep down I'm pretty loyal, but, a few days ago, as I sat in my old haunt for the first time since they reopened, I felt surprising pangs for the place across the county line. The renovations were not yet complete -- the soft seating area was awaiting new chairs and a heater -- but the coffee bar looked nothing less than spectacular. A faux red brick back splash, old fashioned looking dark wood cabinetry, and a cozy wood coffee bar with stools make the once cookie cutter chain store look like it came right out of a quaint country town. For an additional twenty-one cents, my half-decaf was brewed individually for me in a new-fangled machine that uses suction and vacuums and lord knows what else to ensure that not one speck of flavor escapes from my brew. It was even served to me in one of those creamy ceramic white mugs that seem to make coffee look and taste so right. Good thing I wasn't in a hurry, though; perfection takes time.

Despite the fancy new machinery, I was a little ambivalent about the changes. The stained old tables and the smelly old chairs went quite well with my early morning attire -- a mix of the previous night's sleepwear and the previous day's gently used workout duds. Not to mention eye boogers and still visible imprints on my cheeks from the creases in my pillow case. A bit shabby for the new decor.

My ambivalence was fueled yesterday when I first experienced the freshly unveiled soft seating area. I almost got whiplash as I tried to sink into a chair only to find that the stiff cushion would jar my ass into a sudden stop. My body reverberated with discomfort, and, though my butt didn't sink, my heart sure did. Add to that the bizarre arrangement of not so soft seats into little clusters so everywhere you turn there's either another person's arm or a strange pair of eyes staring straight into yours and I felt downright betrayed. Sure, I go to Starbucks to be among people, but I don't actually want to have to interact.

But the barristas in the facelifted Starbucks were the same old barristas, and they have welcomed me back with open arms and a clear memory of all the permutations of my order. What's a little whiplash when you realize you're a part of something so much bigger. I suppose there's certainly room for two Starbucks in my life. It might do me some good to branch out.