Clouds in My Coffee
Another year, a million new opportunities to feel awkward. I have a love/hate relationship with being a 30-year-old student. I love that I am pursuing my passion in a feasible way that is future career oriented. I love that I am at an institution that inspires me and endows me with the tools I need to be successful. I am glad that I am taking on this endeavor at a point in my life where I know better than to skip class, party all night on a Thursday, or believe that I’ll be that one-in-a-million poetry major that makes more than $35,000 a year trying to get public school 12-year-olds to care about Robert Frost.
On the other hand, I am a 30-year-old student. My naivete is not the naivete of a 20-year-old. My optimism is not the optimism of a 20-year-old. My soul is not the soul of a 20-year-old. And my boobs… my boobs are not the boobs of a 20-year-old. Additionally—and this has nothing to do with age—I have this heavy, squirmy monkey on my back called “addiction.” As hard as I try to ignore it and pretend that it’s easy to haul around, it weighs me down more often than I’d like.
7 hours ago, I was having a glorious college morning. I got out of bed on my first alarm, listened to an informative podcast in the shower, put on a pair of ripped jeans and tank top (to blend in with the other university specimens), and I headed out for a cup of coffee. I stopped by a little shop near the library that I rarely frequent. I ordered a cold brew with Splenda and Irish Crème flavoring, and as the cashier called out my order to the barista, he said, “cold brew with Bailey’s!” Now, I know (sort of) that this establishment is merely a coffee shop. I also know that, in a college town, booze does not just appear in front of you without a careful glance at a driver’s license. However, because of his wording, I felt compelled to wave for his attention and “double check” that they were not putting actual Bailey’s in my coffee.
Humiliation does not get cancelled out just because you apply the phrase “better safe than sorry,” to a situation. I should be able to swallow my pride and pretend that my sobriety is like a peanut allergy, and not feel at all ashamed to question what is in my beverages. Instead, I feel like my sobriety is the paparazzi and I am Brad Pitt. I can’t even order a cold brew at 7am without it showing up and invading my space and my mental faculties. When I’m out at a bar or restaurant, I don’t think twice; I assume the worst and sniff my glass before sipping. On a Thursday morning, though? When I’m starting my day off right, though? When I’m on my way to my library/sanctuary, though? Can’t addiction and consequential sobriety just back up off me for five seconds?!
The answer is “no.” It cannot.
Another part of being a 30-year-old college lit student is researching things to death. Along with my research, I have learned that most of the clichés that people repeat, live by, and attribute to authors, philosophers, and prophets are misquotes, or fabricated entirely. Despite having an internal database of hundreds, maybe thousands, of extracts from great works of literature, I was partial to a quote from The Buddha during my reformation. It was part of a larger passage, but he said that one of the three important aspects of our lives is “how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.”
I swallowed that platitude like a pill every single day as I watched the things I love disappear over the horizon, one by one. I told myself that I could not move forward if I kept gripping the bumper of a life that was flooring-it to get away from me. I soothed my hurt with the knowledge that the people and the things that I had cherished deserved a more plentiful and better life than I could give them. It was my duty and privilege to send them off to their Eden—far, far away from me. I didn’t want to be one of those people who didn’t know when to surrender. So, I began to surrender quickly and efficiently.
After a while, I wasn’t just letting go of the things that I’d had, tortured, neglected, and had earned a release. I was barely holding on to the new things that were coming toward me. Despite having a concrete foundation where I could firmly plant my feet—and that concrete being mixed with volcanic sand with a high silica content—I still assumed that all things were unsteady and constantly eroding. Moments came and went. Opportunities came and went. People came and went. I let them go without protest because I believed that I was a human tollbooth; something that people pass through on their way to an accredited destination. I had to let things go gracefully because The Buddha told me that I should.
Turns out, The Buddha never said that. His words were gentrified and mainstreamed like those of Socrates, Einstein, Ghandi, and Dr. Seuss. I was standing on my platform, waving at wonderful people as they passed by, not even bothering to grab a hold of their hand because it didn’t matter how long I could hold them down, they were always meant to fly away. BUDDHA SAID! But Buddha did not say.
“Give up what is not yours. Giving it up will be for your welfare and happiness.” Buddha did say those words. The quote is not as sexy, and it’s quite a bit more self-serving than my general attitude, but who am I to question The Buddha’s actual philosophy? His diet? Sure. His values? Nah. While the advice he lends is still heavy on the side of “letting go,” nowhere does it say that we have to be graceful about it. If given the opportunity to redo the last year or so, I would still go with grace as I made my exit from most venues. The party was over, the clock struck midnight, I had both slippers, so no Prince was chasing after me.
I cannot blame Buddhist misattributions entirely for why I have been so quick to “goodbye,” as of late. Truthfully, I am scared of commitment. I’m scared of the pain of a deep “farewell,” so I jump to a cheap “farewell.” For now, that’s alright. If I’m shielding myself with clichés and malarkey, then I’m clearly not in a place to pour concrete any further than the tips of my toes. My nephew makes me put real band-aids on his fake boo-boos, so I can certainly defend putting a fake band-aid on my real boo-boos while I sit and wait for something that is mine to stick.
My ability to trust in people may be damaged. The faith I had in my future is currently under construction. Generally, I assume that others are better off leaving all together, or simply passing me by, but that’s the nature of those that cannot be, or never were, mine. However, I will not say that I am incapable of commitment. Sobriety takes commitment. Being a nearly middle-aged college student takes commitment (and humility). Additionally, I am committed to sniffing Collins glasses and specifying that I need my coffee drinks to be non-alcoholic, no matter how stupid I look or sound. I have no way of knowing what is or isn’t meant for my future, except for the obvious non-negotiable: being sober. Booze is not mine. I had to give it up for my welfare and happiness. Buddha said it, so it must be true.
