Woman's Faith in Humanity Restored at an Airport Starbucks

Also, why did no one warn me about really bad diaper rashes???

This morning, I left for my last trip to Chicago before my sister moves to Dallas (!!!) this summer. In fact, I’m on the plane writing this letter.

I’m not a get-to-the-airport-early kind of person. In fact, when I got through security today, I had exactly 20 minutes until boarding, which is exactly how I like it. I had already made peace with the fact that my only caffeine option was Starbucks, so I got in the winding line without pause. The good news is my gate happened to be literally right next to it, so I knew I could push it to the very last second before having to board.

For the record, I HATE Starbucks. Like every other red-blooded human, I was about it for a time with convenience as the main driving factor, but it’s crap. I view it as a last resort, i.e. on a road trip in the middle of nowhere, with a gun to my head or, like today, at the airport.

When I get up to the cashier, I order (a venti cold brew with 1/2 & 1/2, 2 pumps of sugar-free vanilla, and 1 pump of their honey mix, whatever the fuck that is. Just trying to make it drinkable, guys) and move out of the way to wait.

Now I’m well aware that the average patron is a cunt no matter the place of patronage. And I always make a concerted effort to not be that. I smile, I tip, I’m overly nice. Some might say I’m downright pleasant.

But the airport Starbucks is not of this world and neither are the “baristas” there. They evoke a certain kind of rage that I reserve just for them.

10 minutes pass wherein I coo at a puppy Goldendoodle whose owner is decked the fuck out in all ALO (or as I like to call it, An***xic Ladies Only. Allie and I once tried on the entire store and left feeling fatter than ever) and play on my phone. I realize that every single person who ordered before me has received not only their drink but also their warmed-up, factory-made, rubberlike pastry. I’m getting concerned. My flight will start boarding in five minutes, but I’m B21 (Southwest), so I still have a little bit of time to spend waiting.

Another few minutes go by, and my flight is actively boarding. I’ve been trying to make eye contact with any of the 3 baristas who are standing around chatting, and when it’s made clear they’ve been trained to not give anxious, hurried airport customers the time of day, I speak up.

“Excuse me?” Still, no one looks my way.

“Is my drink back there somewhere? Emma?”

The head barista looks at me in slo-mo, blinking for what feels like 10 seconds.

“We’re waiting on some ingredients to make it.”

“Oh! Ok!” I chirp semi-pleasantly with a slight edge of cunt.

All I see “waiting” on the back of the coffee bar are BLUE and PINK drinks, but I ordered a cold brew. Not a dragon fruit Rumpelstiltskin raspberry blue candy summer vibin’ jivin’ drink. I’m beginning to feel doubtful they even took my order down correctly.

More times passes, and they have boarded the entirety of group A, which means I need to get in line. I try one more time.

“Mine was a cold brew???” Full cunt here. No pleasantry at all.

The barista who barely looked at me before straight up turns her head the opposite direction to make eye contact with the other barista in a “you handle this” type of way.

“We’re waiting on more cold brew,” the new barista explains.

“OHHHH. OK GOT IT. YOU COULDN’T HAVE EXPLAINED THAT THE FIRST TIME???” I don’t say it, but I’m pretty sure my face does. Or at least I hope so.

I give it two more minutes, then throw in the towel¹ and head to the gate.

I am irate. I’m furiously texting Zac a play-by-play, which I know he appreciates as he’s buried in work but I can’t help myself. THE OUTRAGE.

They begin boarding group B, and I hear a voice behind me “Emma?”

I turn. It’s not an employee but a woman. Just a woman at the airport like me, holding my drink.

“They finally made your drink.” She hands it to me.

“Oh my god?” I say. “You’re… wow. You’re amazing. Thank you so much?”

There’s so much I wanted to say and do in that moment. Offer her $100, tell her she deserves the world, hug her, say “You just restored my faith in humanity.” But as mysteriously as she appeared, she was gone. Like a fart in the wind.

The best part about this entire story is that I chose to wear the new sweatshirt Zac got me for Mother’s Day as my airport lewk. The one by Not Skinny Not Fat that says “You can be a mom” on the front, followed by “and still be a dumb bitch” on the back. And, to be fair, the sentiment means “dumb bitch” in more of a silly, goofy, reality show-watching, celebrity gossip-loving dumb bitch way. Not in a BITCHY dumb bitch way. But still.

I’d also like to add that we’ve been dealing with a horrific diaper rash on Ziggy this entire week, and it’s made me extremely anxious, stressed, sad, worried, and frantic.² He’s had a lot of trouble sleeping because of it, which means we have, too and it’s taken me back to newborn sleep deprivation days. So I really needed that coffee. I was actually looking forward to it, regardless of its place of origin. This morning involved A LOT of tears, baby-screaming, ointment everywhere, poop and pee everywhere, and the rash not looking at all improved. I also hadn’t physically packed my bag yet, so it was just… A MORNING.

Anyway. Cheers? (Also, I’m so happy my grays are back. I will never ever dye or tone my hair ever again. Just a lost mom trying to feel better about herself only to realize that the natural state of her hair is what makes her feel best).

1. Not a towel, but a straw. I threw the straw I was holding onto the counter. TAKE THAT.

2. I STG… do not write me or comment with recommendations about diaper rash. Please. I’ve gotten so much advice, and it’s making everything more confusing and making my head swim. I know it’s well-intentioned, I do. But my number one trigger with motherhood is being told 23 different ways to come at a problem. I have to focus on one solution at a time to see what works, and too many solutions make my anxiety flare up.