What Really Grinds Me

What Really Grinds Me

by Alyssa Ball

I resent Starbucks in so many ways.

I resent Starbucks because they renamed sizes.  If it is the smallest cup you can buy, the name of that size is “small”.  I don’t understand why our society allowed this institution to brainwash us into abandoning our long held and easily understood tradition of small, medium, and large.  It reminds me of when Sean Combs, who I knew at the time as Puff Daddy, announced that he would be known as P. Diddy.  I remember when he told the world, “You can call me P., you can call me Diddy, you can call me P. Diddy.”

Oh how I laughed at the absurdity of it.  As if we would all just go along with this lunacy.  But somehow, in no time flat, I was one of the sheep happy enough to talk about Diddy this and Diddy that.  And I hated myself for it.  I feel the same way every time I order a grande latte.  How dare they force me to order using their ridiculous made up sizes?  Sometimes my subversive streak surfaces and I ask for a medium, but the barista is always quick to correct me.

I resent Starbucks for forcing me to tell them my name before I am allowed to have a coffee.  I could almost tolerate this routine if I was in the coffee shop during the rush, a time when drink after drink is getting slapped down on the counter.  But if I do go to Starbucks, it is on my way to work at a time when the sun has barely peeked over the horizon.  At that hour the crowd in Starbucks consists of me, a lone employee, and the homeless guy asleep in the chair in the corner.  My medium latte is not going to get confused with all the other drinks that are not being made.

Just to cause me further resentment on this count, I have an unusual name.  The entity that is Starbucks forces me to tell them my name, yet I am guaranteed a confused look when I state it.  I resent the requests to repeat my name or spell it for them.  If Starbucks is going to insist on my sharing my name, the least they can do is not furrow their brow and purse their lips when they hear it.

I resent Starbucks because they have created a culture in which we have a ridiculous sense of coffee entitlement.  I once stood in line and listened to the woman in front of me complain about her drink’s temperature.  Apparently she had specified that her nonfat, half-caf, green tea, soy latte, mochachino be no hotter than 123 degrees and no cooler than 117 degrees.  And her incredibly temperature-sensitive tongue told her that her drink was at least 125 degrees.  So I waited while she complained at length, wrought over the injustice she had suffered, and insisting that it be made right.  And the employees scrambled to make her a new drink, accurately heated of course.

I resent Starbucks because of their crushing, overwhelming presence.  There are no less than three Starbucks coffee shops within easy walking distance of my house.  There are, to the best of my knowledge, no locally owned independent coffee shops within that same radius.  I pride myself on supporting the little guy.  Not just pride myself; I am down right self-righteous about it.  But I can’t find a little guy to support.  And because they are there, there, there and there, Starbucks sucks me in.

I resent Starbucks because they keep me coming back.  They keep me coming back despite the fact that I don’t really like the coffee all that much.  They keep me coming back even though I hate their lack of individuality.  They keep me coming back when the service is mediocre and the price is inflated.  And every time I come back I feel like I have just engaged in a highly shameful booty call.

My Aunt Kathy tells stories about when she first discovered Starbucks.  Of course, Aunt Kathy tells a lot of stories.  But she insists that when Starbucks first began to gain national notice, she tried to convince the rest of the family to buy stock.  I am not sure if I believe this claim, but I suppose, had the rest of the family taken Kathy’s alleged advice, if we all bought stock early on, I might be somewhat less resentful of Starbucks.