By Kimberly Cunningham
Here’s what really gets me: when coffee spills, or more specifically, when the little molecules of brown, pungent liquid seep from underneath the plastic white lid and drip, drip, drip all over my clothes. This only seems to happen when I’m trying to look really nice, when I don’t have a napkin, or when I’m trying really, really hard not to spill on myself. And they come slowly – so I usually don’t catch the first drip. In fact, I usually don’t notice it at all – until it’s too late, until I look down and see huge blotches of coffee all over my outfit. It’s enough to completely send me over the edge and ruin my day.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. I can go into the bathroom, put water on the stain and try to get it out. But then I’m left with a huge wet mark on my pants, usually in the crotch area, or my blouse, usually in the boob area, and for the rest of the day, everyone thinks I’m either lactating or suffering from bladder-control issues. And inevitably, some smartass in my office makes a joke about how I’m a cow, and when I try to explain that I simply spilled coffee on myself, he just walks away.
But then I see him later that day in a huddle with some of my colleagues, and they all get really quiet when I walk by. And I know what they’re talking about. I know! The smartass is telling them the funny joke about me being a cow and how he caught me lactating by the coffee machine.
And yes, I needed a fresh coffee. Of course, I needed more coffee, since the first one – the one I paid $3.86 for (which I had to charge because I used all my cash to pay to park) – dripped all over me.
And then I start to feel self-conscious and begin rethinking my outfit, wondering if the cow joke might have some truth behind it. And suddenly I realize my pants don’t go with my shoes and the color of my shirt totally washes out my complexion, and well, maybe I am carrying some extra holiday weight, and maybe the cow joke really was a fat joke! And after another glance, I realize I kind of look pregnant. And even though I immediately make a mental note to go to the gym after work, I still feel bad.
But maybe everyone thinks I really am pregnant and that I won’t be able pull my weight around the office anymore. And the next thing I know, I’ve crossed over into the BAD place, the place I am never supposed to go, the place where I start thinking: “Gee, I do kind of wish I was pregnant. Maybe, that coffee stain on my boobs this morning was a sign. How nice it would be to have a little baby in my belly. I could talk to it and play Mozart for it at night. And then it wouldn’t matter if I was a few pounds overweight because everyone would think it was cute and make jokes about my chubby cheeks and how I was eating for two. And I’d laugh right along with them and send my assistant out for another piece of cheesecake.”
But then I take it one step further, because – let’s face it – I’m dramatic. I start thinking of strange and unusual baby names like Cucumber and Pear and of all the cute outfits I will buy at Baby Gap. And then I think, “Maybe I’ll just adopt because that seems so hip these days.” And I decide I definitely want my son to be like Maddox Jolie-Pitt. I want him to have a Mohawk and wear army fatigues just like the cute little Cambodian refugee he’ll be. I secretly start surfing the net for adoption services in
Then, out of nowhere, I’m hit with the hard reality that I can’t have a child. I can’t even take care of myself. And I think: “I haven’t been on a date in five years, which makes it virtually impossible to have a baby the old-fashioned way. And really, like anybody would want to have a baby with me.”
Now, I’m totally depressed and force myself to click off the Yoga-for-Women-with-Child Web site. I speed dial my therapist Anne Marie and request an emergency session. And when I visit Anne Marie on my lunch break, she tells me I need to be more gray, that I am too black and white, and that I am destined to have a miserable life if I don’t “get a grip.” To which I politely reply: “I am the perfect amount of gray! And you, Anne Marie, are in fact the one who needs to ‘get a grip!’”
Of course, I immediately apologize, schedule a follow-up and spend the rest of the day feeling guilty for snapping at her. I make a vow to get in touch with my gray side and not to revisit the BAD place for at least 30 days. I curse my parents for taking me to church and decide that all this guilt is going to put me in an early grave. But afterwards, of course, I feel obligated to call my mom and tell her how much I love her, while emphasizing the idea that I’m still a good person even though I’m not a good Catholic.
Meanwhile, on the drive home, I pass about seven Starbucks and, on instinct, start craving a venti, no-foam, extra-hot, one-pump vanilla latte. The rich aroma, the way it warms the stomach and curbs the appetite, it’s all so, SO good. And now the caffeine cravings are burning inside me like a vengeful fire, and I think, “Maybe, I’ll even treat myself to cookie.”
I awake from my fantasy to a screeching voice and realize my mother is still on the other end of my Bluetooth earpiece. She scolds me for driving and talking on the phone at the same time. I respond by telling her I am so damn busy that the car ride home is the only time I feel like I can talk. She hangs up in a huff, and the guilt resurfaces. Now, I decide I am definitely getting a cookie – maybe two. And three-point-four seconds later my beat-up Buick rolls into the parking lot outside Starbucks.
In a flash, I am reborn. I have my coffee, and all is well in the universe. As I drive home, I bounce to Beyonce, sip my latte and gnaw on chocolate-dipped biscotti. Life is good. Life is great. Life is … suddenly I am overcome by a feeling of impending doom. Happy place. Happy place. I can’t find my happy place! Just then I feel something warm and wet – something all too familiar – drip on the curve of my breast. And it all begins again.
