Starbucks Communism

Rain turned to slush in the skies over Clarks Summit, PA. I woke up, earlier than usual, to a soggy Monday morning with a mind to take advantage of the extra time before work. So I got ready, rotated the seedlings intended for this year’s garden, and naturally headed to Starbucks. The Clarks Summit Starbucks is okay in my book. Sometimes it has condensation control difficulties, and parking can be an absolute joke. But when all is said, it gets the job done. However, something happened this morning that has left me uneasy and feeling robbed of my right to choice. As I approached the counter to order my drink, and indeed began to request my “Grande Mocha,” all three of the baristas behind the counter began to glow with a pride that smelled eerily of smugness and self-admiration. And hardly had the words left my mouth when the drink was sitting in front of me on the counter.

“We saw you pull in,” they announced proudly.

“Oh, good,” I thought. “Stalkers and communists.”

This is what irritates me. Mondays can be a tough day. And though I typically enjoy them, certain things need to occur in order for me to get to my Monday morning utopia. And one of those things is receiving the simple, yet oh-so-very-profound sense of accomplishment and self-worth that comes with making the first major decision of the week: Starbucks. So naturally, when I walk in to find that a decision that I have paid $3.48 (I have a Starbucks Rewards card) for has been robbed from me, I am justifiably indignant!

And what about my right to wait? I’m not impatient for my Starbucks drinks. I would like to know that it was carefully crafted by well trained hands. Don’t get me wrong here… I know that Starbucks is the corporate farm of coffee shops where it’s not about nuance or atmosphere or amazing coffee – as much as they’d like us to believe that – but I do want my drinks to taste right. And if good things come to those who wait, what then for those who are forced not to wait? I fear that something less than good is in store for them.

But I’m not typically a wave-maker. So I muttered something about good service, gave my money to the greedy barista, and slumped down in a less-than-comfortable chair to complain to the blogosphere of my Monday frustration.

So, to the baristas and Starbucks ladder-climbers – hear my cry. Let me order my drink MYSELF!