Day XCIII: Humanity

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person 

is essential to your own.

-Robert Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

I was in love once.

Perhaps twice.

Have fallen inexorably, dishearteningly, suffocatingly into the breath of puppy love a thousand times over. To fall into the arms of missed opportunities, of glances misunderstood, of smiles that were just that: bruising isn't always a surface-level change. There are moments I look back upon and think, huh, that was pretty obvious, and  wonder why it is that hindsight can be so painfully crystalline. And regardless of how easily misery breeds company, I don't think there's a thing I would change in how I relate myself to others.

(Okay, that's not fair. There are plenty of times that I find myself wishing I hadn't said X or laughed like Y. Or wondering why didn't I ask this or reacted like that. Or why I went for a handshake. Or--much worse--why I only used one arm for the hug. But, generally, I take a lot of pride in composing myself in this way or that, almost always aware of how I'm presenting myself in a situation. Truthfully, I can't be too upset.)

There is plenty to be upset with, I suppose, from an objective standpoint when it comes to dating/relationships/feelings and myself. I wear my heart on my sleeve; I'm reactive; I'm curiously naive; I'm idealistic; I'm overthink; I invest myself in others, often to a fault. Down the spectrum, though, I possess many traits that I hold in rather high regard: sincerity, humor, kindness, sarcasm.

It's an exhausting combination. Too often, I find myself lost in thought, fixating on a single interaction, isolating and examining every little building block that led up to and created that one mind-bending moment.

Worse: I acknowledge that it's happening. I can retreat from the scenario and recognize: Josh, you're doing it again. And can't help myself but to continue dissecting.

If I had a quarter for every time I've thought, It doesn't need to be like this...

Perhaps a change of habit is in order?

In Magers and Quinn: a navy jacket, a small Twins cap, and the same Sperry's hiding somewhere in my closet cling to a guy checking out Palahniuk, leafing through Tartt. Eyes flick to my own--shit, was I staring?--and I unsuccessfully cover my tracks in the spines of Rushdie novels in the corner.

In Bull Run: a book, coffee with splashes of soy milk, great smile. Conversation with one-second pauses wars could be fought in.

It's too easy to swoon in a bookstore or in a coffee shop. You're already surrounded by all that is good and wonderful in the world. You think of great poets and writers who taught you what it means to feel, to be vulnerable, to be genuine. You smell bittersweet notes of chocolate and berry that instill your body, your mind with romance and memory.

Environment can weigh so heavily on a person surrounded by everything they love.

I was sitting on the ledge of a hot tub, legs dangling in the bubbling water, when I said "I love you" for the first time.

Is that normal? To remember that moment?

I was young and enthusiastic and eager. And wrong.

In the years since, I've learned a thing or two about how feelings work, how we attach ourselves to others. Specifically, how my feelings work, how I attach myself to others. And while much of the learning can be chalked up to age, to experience, I like to think practicing more honesty with myself has given me a leg up on the world.

From honesty comes vulnerability. From vulnerability, freedom.

From freedom: revelation.

From revelation: humanity.

And from humanity...what more could asked for?

Day LXXXVI: Coffee II

I think I'm dating my coffee shop.

There are currently 998 photos on my phone's camera role.

I think 400 of them were taken inside Bull Run Coffee.

That's not an exaggeration. I am legitimately nervous to count. It's going to be an embarrassing percentage.

Meanwhile, let's take a look at the IV in my left arm. It's cold press, currently, but I suppose it could be any combination of soy milk and espresso, too. Drip. Drip. Drip. Good to the last drop, isn't that the phrase?

When we moved to the neighborhood, I knew this place would be a problem. It was already one of my very favorite coffee shops in the twin cities. A three-minute-walk has not reduced my affection. If anything, it's quietly becoming a second home. And when I say "becoming," please know that I've essentially signed lease; rent is paid daily in varying amounts of "hello," "Jasmine please," and "soy cap?"

Throughout my years at Gustavus, I worked as a barista at one of the very best coffee shops in Minnesota (read: the world). My sophomore year, I lived off campus--sort of--with a gaggle of seniors. I had a car, and cash, and free time to spare. So I did what most 19-year-olds would do: I drank a lot and spent too much. So, a job became a necessity. I wasn't unfamiliar with being a part of the work force; my parents whole-heartedly believed in teenagers having jobs...as soon as they turned thirteen. I played roles: dishwasher, bookseller, sandwich artist, ice cream parlor maestro, server. Something food-based just made sense.

River Rock was a hotspot of sorts in the town of Saint Peter. A coffee shop in a small town, but exceptionally vocal for the global community. Sustainability and quality were (are) the lifeblood of the operation, and, from the beginning, that was apparent.

I remember my interview. It might as well have been this afternoon.

Tamika, hair out to here, curly and frantic. Her eyes calm in a way that was both pleasant and terrifying. Me, wearing a polo--what was I thinking--and jeans that made my ass look damn good, hair also out to here. And Amber, sitting off to the side, full of sassy commentary during my time with Tamika. Montana--the brilliant human, not the state--sitting down half-way through, laughing at my bad jokes and asking why I'd circled the flamingo sticker on the application. 

An hour later: "We like to leave it in your hands at this point. Go home. Rest. Relax. Think about it. Call us back tomorrow if you'd like to commit to working here."

Fourteen hours pass: "YESTHANKSIWILLTAKETHEJOBCANISTARTTODAY?"

I spent four and a half years with River Rock Coffee. I became a part of the community, a part of the family. From behind the counter, I was a masthead. Face-forward and resolved.

Now, a member of a new coffee community, on the other side of the counter. First name basis, and better conversation than "It's been good, how about yours?" I have to pause here and there to think about what it means to be in front of a chemex or a french press, not behind one. And, I suppose, I've reached the conclusion that it doesn't really matter what side of the counter you're planted on. When you're a coffee-centric person, your love for the touch-taste-smell of the craft does not wane.  I still appreciate a rosetta and the way crema can ripple like satin. The velvet of Guatemala and blueberry of Kenya still linger on the back of your tongue just a little longer than it does for the casual coffee connoisseur.

Today, I am feeling thankful for espresso and, more specifically, the people who put so much care and effort into the art of coffee. There are days when settling down in St. Peter and going back to River Rock sounds like the most enticing, brilliant proposition. 

Luckily, Bull Run is an equally perfect bar...even on this side of the counter.

Day LI: Coffee

Coffee is coffee is coffee. Except when it's not.

But if you're sitting down, enjoying a cup, and someone who is meeting you--for coffee, god, it's just coffee--is late, like, really late, like six minutes late, and you're already sweating and scared that, well shit, they're not coming, I guess it's just coffee, no room, just coffee for one.

And the bell. The bell sounds so insistent, so persistent, so sure of itself and, god, so annoying. It's a trap. A bruised and pained and aching neck. Up, down, up down, up and down. You'd think your neck would learn. ding, look, ding, look, ding, nope, ding, is it?, ding, look, ding, I get it! You're not coming to coffee. No, god, no I don't need room for cream. ding, what, ding, stop!, ding, oh.

Oh.

OH.

Oh. You made it.

You made it.

The draft of cold air, freezing cold, by the way, ruffling your coat, tossing your hair. Your cheeks are blushing! Pink and cold and hard. Mouth like a Cheerio or a Fruit Loop, shocked into place, wailing "oooo, boy, it's cold!" And your teeth are so white. Like snow-white. Like milk-white. Like paper-white. Like Crest-white. Too white for coffee?

Jesus, you don't drink coffee, that's how white your teeth are. You don't drink coffee. Shit. I should have known. Of course you don't. You just wake up and look put together and act awake and are just perfect and ready and present.

It's just coffee. It's just coffee. It's just coffee.

The funny thing about lying is you can keep going and going and no matter how many times you say it aloud or repeat and repeat you'll always be missing the truth. So know that I'm not lying when I say again and again and again that, boy, yes, wow, you look like a million bucks.

And all of that, all those words and surprises and observations and questions, all of it runs through my head before the door even shuts behind you. I can tell I'm rambling--in my head, god, not out loud, I'm not nuts, I swear, I really do, I swear I'm perfectly normal, just a bit of nerves I think--because it's so cold in here all over again. That breeze, those terrible seconds of air flooding in after your entrance, they're oh-so-insufferable but wholly unnoticed.

And it's because you're here.

You came to coffee.

You said you would, but, god, I mean really, how can anyone be sure, you know?

That smile! Shooting like a laser beam! It hits me and I think, if we were playing laser tag, I would be all lit up and beeping and blaring and probably dead. That's what it feels like when you smile at me. Like we're playing games at an arcade and I don't care if I'm losing because that smile makes me feel like I've always been in first place.

When you tug at the chair, it's metal legs stuck and tangled and mangled with the table base, making so much ruckus, and you laugh--that laugh!--and create such a scene with just one chair and one table, it's no wonder that everyone turns to look. It's no wonder we all watch in awe. It's no wonder everything goes quiet except the waves of laughter bustling from your cereal shaped lips.

It's no wonder.

It's no wonder that the chair is four tables away and across from someone else.

Today it's just coffee.

Coffee, no room, just coffee for one.

Day L: Scatterbrained

It's not that I am forgetful. If that were the case, I'd have no memory for names or dates or places. I remember things, and remember them well. Significant moments and small, intimate encounters rarely escape me. Probably because I focus on them too diligently? I'm an extractor. I like to make sure I've exhausted every possible drop of insight or excitement from the situation, understanding it wholly and completely, focusing every last ounce of mental, emotional, and physical strength available until the event has been parsed into thousands of tiny memories.

Shit, I need to clean my computer. The screen is so gross. I mean, it's not gross. It's just a little, um, filmy? I suppose a micro layer of dust and spotty grime never ruined a computer, but, Jesus, let's get it together, Plattner.

Kyle pointed out last night that whenever I get upset with myself, I say: "c'mon, Plattner" or "Plattner, what's wrong with you?!" Probably conditioning. Never do I say: "Josh! Get your shit together!" or "Oops, missed again, Josh." Maybe my surname is just more discipline-able? In any case, now you all know that I yell at myself when I'm upset. So I'm sure I look incredibly stable. But, go ahead, just try to tell me you've never talked to yourself. You can say whatever you'd like, I wont believe you. Everyone does it. 

I hope.

Hope is one of those four letter words that doesn't often lead where it needs to. Have you ever thought about that? I wonder how many times we've hoped for this or asked for that, only to have our dreams and aspirations dashed by some twist of fate. Sure, there are plenty of instances where hope has led to success and joy, but don't you think the scales are stacked in favor of disappointment? The collective hope is certainly overpowered by the collective despair. I don't know how you'd measure that. Could you? Maybe my attitude is just a little half-empty?

Which is definitely the way my coffee mug looks. Empty. Devoid of hope.

Luckily, refills are on the house at Bull Run.

No joke: as I typed the above phrase, the barista at the counter behind me, Ezra, said: "...and refills are on the house." It gave me chills! I almost wanted to shout, "Jinx!"

Speaking of, Jinkx Monsoon won the Snatch Game last season on Drag Race. And this week, we'll be seeing this season's crop in action. With ten queens instead of nine, I am sure this year's crop of girls will be fighting for RuPaul's stamp of approval more than ever. My prediction is that Adore, Bianca, and Ben will be on top while Laganja, Gia, and Milk will be in some serious trouble. I'm nervous, y'all!

I don't know where I picked up "y'all," but I say it a lot. I can't remember if it's something I've always said.

But it's not that I don't remember things! I'm easily distracted! I jump from point A to B to C to Z and back to J, K, and L. I find weird connections and get distracted by them easily. I lose my keys and phone at least twice a day, but it's always precisely where you'd expect it. Kirsten, my friend and (past) roommate used to have a better handle on my personal affects than I did. 

Now that's a good friend.

I get to see her this weekend! How lucky!

And how lucky that I made it to the half-way point in #100DaysOfJosh without missing a post. I thought for sure I'd forget to post at least once by now.

But it's not forgetting! I'm just scatterbrained.