Fantasy me drinks tea. She gazes out of a rain-spattered window as she savors every herbal sip and smiles indulgently at her daughter who is curled up on the hearthrug, building a tiny recycling center out of locally sourced twigs (note to self: acquire hearthrug. And hearth). She breathes a sigh of contentment as the comforting sound of her husband chopping kale in the kitchen. OK, that’s a bit much. He’s roasting a chicken, but it’s definitely free-range.
Real me drinks coffee, obviously, and does pretty much the opposite of all of the above. She does smile indulgently at her daughter over some good old-fashioned plastic Legos with her mind only about 45% distracted by that email she should have sent about that thing. “Queer Eye” is the hearth she curls up in front of. She’s made a life in the best coffee country on earth and takes her responsibility to support national coffee producers – singlehandedly, if need be – very seriously. She’s consistently a little bit frazzled, like a sitcom klutz, or at least that’s how it feels inside her brain. She thinks that Tea Me is kind of obnoxious.
I’ve been trying to get these two together forever. I keep telling Coffee Me that she needs Tea Me around, and that she should lay off the kale comments – but you know what I just realized right now as I am typing this? I fucking love Coffee Me. I don’t want to change a hair on her head. She can sip kombucha and make organic vegetable stew and meditate whenever she wants – and while kale is a nice punching bag, she secretly kinda likes it – but she is no longer expected to become a different person as a result. I’m done with self-improvement as a concept, especially when it’s is of no interest to certain horrible people at the very top of society. There’s so much wrong with the world, and so little time to fix it, that I don’t have an ounce of mental energy to spare for any me other than the one who’s prostrate on the couch, typing furiously while her daughter watches a cartoon about a group of anti-feminist ponies who can’t find their hairdresser (wait, what the… ? No. Let it go. Writing casualty).
Hi there, Coffee Me, ye of the whirring mind, disheveled hair and achy soul. I started this little essay intending to broker a peace between you and your imaginary mindful sister with her beatific smile, but you know what? No matter what you’ve got in your mug, you’re the one I want. And you’re all I’ll ever need.
I’m a writer in San José, Costa Rica, on a year-long quest to share daily posts on inspiring people, places and ideas from my adopted home as a kind of tonic during a rough time in the world. Sign up (top right of this page) to receive a little dose of inspiration every weekday in your mailbox; tell a friend; check out past posts; and please connect with me on Instagram or Facebook!