Coming home after this summer, I made a conscious effort to not to spend money on things I don’t need. And generally, I’ve been pretty good at patching jeans instead of buying new ones, abstaining from haircuts, biking instead of driving, and packing lunches for the day (ok, that’s not been much of a sacrifice, anyone who knows me knows my cooking obsession). But there’s one thing I can’t bring myself to stop buying.
Coffee.
And it’s not because I turn into this crazy, bitchy monster if I don’t have my morning dose of caffeine. It’s that habitual comfort and everything that comes from that warm coffee smell, tearing the brown packets of sugar, and even the little cardboard sleeves.
Nothings quite the same as getting to the Pit early in the morning (ok, not THAT early…) and sitting outside Daily Grind sipping on a cup of happiness swirled with a splash of half and half. You can’t beat that chilly morning air and people watching with a reading that’s either health policy or more likely the DTH crossword.
And then there’s Weaver Street. Love of my life. It’s hard to be in a bad mood when I’m drinking coffee in my free refill white ceramic mug surrounded by trees, art, kids, dogs, people with accents, bikers, bikers with kid’s seats—or side cars, old people, hippies, and every other kind of Carrboro person. I am convinced I get more work done in this kind of environment than the library, or maybe it’s simply because I die a little on the inside each time I step into Davis.
I don’t even want to do the math to see how much extra money I spend each week feeding my addiction (but that might be more because of my desire to run away from all things math related). Either way, I can rationalize it by at least drinking Rwandan coffee, no?
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