Caffeine Confessions from a Former Phony: A Comically Profound Rumination on Coffee

I must confess, to my great shame, that any prior interest of mine in coffee was entirely pretense. I wanted to be in the elite company of icons, artists, loved-ones, mysterious artsy types that sat at a cafe sipping from its lid while reading, and pretty girls with cute nails who tapped against its plastic and shook its ice.

Despite my best efforts, I never understood the universal obsession with coffee. Every culture reveres it. The caffeinated beverage has inspired some of history’s most culturally significant contributions. It is consistently a major contributor to many a country’s GDP. Really? I would wonder. All this fuss over a liquid that tastes like dirt (after a dog had peed in it), no matter how much milk and sugar you add?

I used to wear my self imposed exclusion from the rest of society’s obsession as a pretentious badge of honor. I even pulled it out as a fun fact a few times during ice breaker games. My coffee hatred was especially useful for throwing someone off of my trail during “two truths and a lie.” I reveled in the collective confoundedness that someone could have gone two decades without succumbing to a coffee habit. Meanwhile, I was quite confounded myself that such an unappealing beverage had such ardent defenders.

“But it wakes you up!” some would protest.

I remained unconverted.

Unexpectedly, my coffee hatred began to haunt me. Maybe I was the problem here. How could so many other people be wrong? But how could so many other people genuinely enjoy this stuff? Were they all pretending? After all, coffee is a pretty cool aesthetic if nothing else. I am still convinced its aesthetic value accounts for some of its popularity and that there are some pretenders, as there always are. Coming from a former pretender, I like to believe I can recognize the signs (chronic posting of your coffee order on Instagram is one).

But my pretending is a thing of the past because this past Monday, I found myself genuinely enjoying a morning cup of coffee. This was much to my own surprise. The day was otherwise un-noteworthy. I woke up to the blaring late-morning sunlight which I then promptly replaced with the blue LED’s of my phone screen to temporarily delay the tiresome burden of being vertical. I washed my face and explained my three-step skincare routine to a pretend audience of devotees. I detangled my hair and stumbled down the stairs. I remembered that I forgot to make my bed and feed the cats (whose grumpy meowing reminded me). I trudged back up the stairs, consoling myself with the fact that the motion was good for the glutes. All routine.

Then the moment of conversion was upon me! I was craving something sweet since the night before. Existing in the same household as a coffee fanatic, we have a Keurig, foam maker machine, fun k-cup flavors, and caramel drizzle syrup—so I thought, hm. I assembled my drink and started my day with a bouncy pep in my step. The drink wasn’t sweet, but I finished my proud creation anyway. I continued the ritual every morning for the remainder of the week.

I broke the blessed news to my best friend that my stubborn taste buds had finally been broken in.

“It’s all about choosing what kind of bitter you like,” she said.

Like the nerd I am, I managed to make the lighthearted topic of coffee comically profound.

The same is true for life, isn’t it? It will never be all sweet—even making lemonade requires working with sour ingredients. Enjoying coffee reminds us to not merely grit our teeth and stomach the bitter tones of life, but learn to savor them. There is more to coffee fanaticism than the aesthetic effect: the delicate assembly and balance of flavors, the harsh aftertaste that one comes to crave the bite of, and the subsequent feeling of accomplishment after every bitter sip.

Whether in line at the coffee shop, or merely existing on planet Earth, we all must ask ourselves how we want our coffee to be made. Black, or with some sugar and cream? No matter your preference, please don’t post it on your Instagram story—nobody cares.

(I’m kidding of course. But in the wise words of Jermaine Cole, “all good jokes contain true shit”).