A Coffee Break

One of the fabulous women I met at the spa this weekend was conducting a science experiment on herself, seeing if a vegan diet would effectively lower her cholesterol. She was giving herself twelve weeks, cutting all the things she loved out of her diet to see if she could tackle her elevated readings without medication. Sure, a part of her wants to fail ("hey, if the diet doesn't work, bring on the ribs and the Lipitor," she admitted), but at least she was making the effort. It's amazing how a little bit of suffering and deprivation can make us feel worthy.

My cholesterol is fine, but there are certainly things I can afford to trim from my diet. Like my daily dose of designer coffee, for example. I did a little math recently. If I cut out my dawn trips to Starbucks, I could save over seven hundred dollars a year. Minus the cost of stocking my house with coffee and cream. And minus all the earnings from my blog, which, obviously, would never get done. Oh, wait, there are no earnings from my blog.

Seven hundred dollars for the year may not sound like a lot to the more well-heeled among us, but for someone about to be in the market for a double wide it's a good chunk of a down payment. Nothing to sneeze at. So I'm going to try to kick the coffeehouse habit.

Cold turkey withdrawal would probably cause all sorts of unpleasant side effects, so I'm thinking about a gradual weaning. I've already begun the process, occasionally arriving at my Starbucks at a later hour. The experience has proved to be quite unsettling.

At the crack of dawn, when the barristas are still dusting off the machines from the evening before, the customers are bleary eyed and generally solo. Just the way I like to see everybody. By mid morning, folks have scrubbed up, paid attention to their clothing, and more often than not have even found a companion or two with whom they can share some coffee and conversation.

And there are dates! Men and women coupled off at little tables acting fascinated about what the other has to say, all the while imagining (I can only assume) what the other looks like naked. Or, in many cases, trying to avoid thinking about that while they convince themselves it's all about personality. Hey, there's a reason Thomas Edison invented the off switch. Or was that Ben Franklin?

Anyway, the only thing less appealing than watching other people date is going on your own dates. Frankly, the best dates I can remember are the ones I had at the spa this past weekend -- the ones with the pits inside. Sure, they made me a little bit queasy and sent me running off to the bathroom in agony, but they were just about the sweetest things I've ever encountered. If altering my Starbucks time means I might have to witness or participate in more dates of the other variety, mediocre mugfuls of caffeine brewed at home are starting to look pretty good.

I'll give myself a little time -- let's say twelve weeks. I'll see if my piggy bank really starts to swell as a result of all my hard work and monkish asceticism. If not, it's back to Starbucks at six a.m., and I'll just have to give up a manicure or two to start saving up for that trailer.