Observations at a Starbucks on a Saturday afternoon...

My writing compadre Julie and I decided to meet up today in a downtown Starbucks and get some good work done – me on my thesis and her on a job hunt. While I did manage to write a couple pages, I couldn’t resist people watching (one of the things I love to do when in coffee shops) and put down some of my observations for you to enjoy…

Three ladies sit down at my table. One is “of a certain” age and seems nice enough. Definitely well put together – the lipstick matches the jacket, which also matches the bag. The other two are younger, and, as it turns out, are her daughters. They don’t look anything alike, unless you count the scent of money wafting across the table.
The one in the middle has an enormous circle-cut diamond, encircled by diamonds on a (platinum?) band with, you guessed it, more diamonds. They’re out wandering the streets of Boston planning a wedding. Judging by the amount they’re dropping on flowers for the rehearsal dinner (two grand – I’m so nosy), it’s going to be a high-class affair.
The bride-to-be eyebrows seem to be constantly arched in surprise. This is less due to any sort of sticker shock, but more to an overly enthusiastic wax job, which gives her the look of someone being goosed in their Paper Denim jeans every 15 seconds. Or, maybe she’s just surprised that the popped-pink-polo she’s chosen to wear for bridal registry day is so 2004.
The three of them crowd over their venti teas and examine a Crate & Barrel “free gift” card insert from this season’s bridal magazine. The card entitles one of them to a silver-covered wicker basket.
“What the hell would you use that for?” asks the sister. She’s wearing a Pink Burberry scarf, that matches her light freckles, upturned nose and $200 haircut perfectly. Oh, and it looks good with her $85 lip bleach job, too. Snap!
“We could fill it with candy for Valentines Day!” sniffs bride-to-be.
“Oh, that’d be cute!” coos the cougar mom.
“Let’s go to Pottery Barn and then we’ll be done,” says bride-to-be.
“Can we at least go to one store that I want to go to?” Mom asks, only whining ever so slightly.
“Which one is that?” sister/maid-of-honor/girl most likely to go home with a groomsman asks.
“Maybe Lord & Taylor.”
“What about Nordstrom’s?”
“There’s a Nordstrom’s around here?”
“It’s a Neiman Marcus, you always do that. Get it right.”
“I don’t like pleated pants.”
“Oh, they’re pleated. We couldn’t get anything but pleated.”
“Why is that kid whining? You know, if you let your kids whine, they’ll just develop a speech impediment.”
It was at this point that I have to start tuning them out, otherwise I would be tempted to overturn my table, spill their teas and mess up their hair while laughing maniacally.
Oh well, congratulations. May you last ‘til ’09.

I can’t place this one guy. His appearance gives one the impression of either being a brilliant M.I.T. professor, mentally working out theorems, or of the guy who digs the cans out of my recycling bins each week on a break between talks with Verne, his imaginary pet troll.
I looked up to see him chewing on a plastic bag, so it appears to confirm my latter suspicions. His hair, styled in the ever-popular Ben Franklin fashion (bald on top, long on sides and back) sticks out haphazardly in all directions, coming dangerously close to the latte belonging to the studious co-ed next to him.
He’s also switched seats three times in the hour that I’ve been stationed behind my laptop. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone? Or maybe he’s even more OCD about his seating arrangement than I am (I refuse to have my back to the door – you never know when your mortal enemy might show up. In my case, my mortal enemy is either Derek Jeter, the lead singer for Maroon 5 or Griffin, the smelly kid from fourth grade.).
He’s dressed in a fairly clean, 3/4-length wool dress coat. Underneath that, he has corduroy slacks and a v-neck sweater, both also in presentable states of cleanliness – no stains, no smell. He does come off as frumpy, and not just because of the hair. Everything he’s got on is wrinkled.
If I were a betting man (and I am for the right odds and money), I would have to wager that he is nuts more than he’s brilliant, even if it is a combination of the two. While I’ve been typing the last three paragraphs, he’s still been in focused, intense conversation with Verne the Troll. And, if I’m not mistaken, Verne has done something to make him upset. Watch your back, Verne!

I have seen no less than four iPhones in the past ten minutes, not including my own, confirming my suspicions that I have already slipped dangerously behind times. I must now go and my replace my horribly outmoded iBook G4 with a shiny new MacBook Air, stat. Whatever “stat” means.

This other guy, his head is huge. It looks like a lumpy bowling ball squatting on top of his rounded shoulders. His posture is terrible – all hunched over, gremlin-like - and it is an instant reminder for me to correct mine. Now sitting straight up in my chair, one leg crossed over the other (attracting sideways glances from the boys, but dammit, it’s comfortable) I shoot sideways glances his way. He's removed the bubble-top of his non-whipped frappacino and is tilting the slushy chocolate drink back to his lips, gulping each mouthful down with a long, drawn-out sssssssslurp. I can see the other table members shooting him glares over their copies of Love in the Time of Cholera and How Starbucks Saved My Life. And I find myself doing the same… I wonder if I’m better at shooting darts with my eyes than I am in bars?

What is it, exactly, that gives high-schoolers the herd instinct? Two groups of eight just walked in here, one right after the other. The first was chattering non-stop about some girl named Tracy, who apparently isn't with them and also has some questionable hygiene and moral issues, at least by their standards. I don't catch what the second group was yammering on about, because I’d just noticed another instinct they all seem to share – the motivation to wear that bare minimum of cold-weather clothing.
It’s chilly out. I’m sitting by the door and every time it opens, my fingers turn a slightly deeper shade of blue. I’m typing furiously, not to record all of this stuff, but to keep my digits attached to me, right where they should be – at the ends of my wrists. I’m sitting inside and I’m cold, yet not one of these kids is wearing anything heavier than a thin, unzipped sweatshirt. The girls all seem to be part of some sort of team, or buy their clothes in bulk, since they all wearing identical fake-fur lined, puffy black vests.
Whatever, I probably used to do the same thing. Actually, I have two vests that I recently donated to the Salvation Army because I haven’t worn them in years.

What is it about the French that make them so freaking skinny? This lovely couple just added cream and sugar to their respective coffees. I’m not a big guy, but they could’ve used my jeans as His & Her sides to a denim sleeping bag.
I hate them.
Good thing I stuck with the soy latte.

Okay, time to go warm up… my fingernails just went black and I can’t feel my toes. I thought coffee shops were supposed to warm you up?