THE MORNING RUSH IS over. The long (socially distanced) lineup of customers has receded — dental office receptionists and stay-at-home mums filtering back out into the neighbourhood, gripping croissants and flat whites — and our little cafe is transformed again into an oasis of calm. We might get the occasional dog-walker now, with dogs of all shapes and smells tied to their waists by brightly coloured leashes, twisting them up into complicated knots like a canine maypole, but basically, we'll have the place to ourselves until the local high school lets out. At 3:30, we'll flood again, this time with a sea of oversized hoodies and Herschel backpacks, faces buried in cell phones.
I like the high school kids and their taste for expensive lattes. I remember scraping nickels and dimes together with my friends to split a 20 pack of McNuggets or, later, of cigarettes, but it seems like fancy coffee drinks are the filthy addiction of the next generation. As a cafe owner, I couldn't be happier about that. I am #Blessed, as they say, to be the modern-day equivalent of Ronald McDonald and Joe Camel rolled into one. I'm especially grateful they choose to get their $7 caffeine fix here rather than at the glossy, green logo-ed chain up on the main road.
It doesn't escape me that this next generation has a morality that mine utterly lacks and I respect them for it. As much as they may prefer to dress like prison inmates, they seem to be a socially conscious, inclusive and fair generation. There's no doubt they've been fed a little too freely on internet porn and as a result may have developed some unfortunate ideas about how IRL relationships actually work, but for the most part, they're grounded. They have opinions, morals, and an adorable fetish for plant-based milks.
In the lull, I straighten and wipe down our coffee bar, which is stacked like a health food grocery store: Soy milk, Oat milk, Almond milk, Cashew milk, Almond-Cashew milk, Coconut-Almond milk... there's a new variation on the market every week. Natalie, our cafe manager, has taken my car to the cash and carry to pick up a crate of the latest (Pea milk, which, I'm sorry to say I don't think will survive its own unfortunate homophone) and I am left in a bubble of glorious, perfect peace. Clean cafe, stacked and orderly shelves and at least the next few minutes to myself.
Quiet. Nothing to get done. Nowhere to be.
The old impulse is there before I'm aware of it: my hand reflexively reaches for the work phone I don't carry anymore and my brain treats my guts to a shot of that sick dread I used to feel whenever I was about to check email. What awful thing will be waiting for me? What crisis? What petty, stupid, all-consuming workplace drama could be waiting to explode under my feet like an undetonated mine?
It takes a moment to remember: there is no mine. No crisis. No office drama. That's not my life now.
I have shucked off the yoke corporate servitude. I have stared into the greedy eye of executive bonus structures and said, "no more!" I have released myself from the frenzied all-hours whims of egomaniacal CEOs who care nothing for other people's sleeping habits and a great deal too much about what stock analysts are saying.
I can breathe again.
This is what I've been instructed to do by my therapist, who is called Dr. Harold Hartling but who I mentally refer to as "Hippie Harry," based on his love of incense, hemp outfits and yoga as a therapeutic device. He says, when the old feelings sneak up on me like that, I should Breathe Through It.
Harry encourages meditation, but I've had to explain to him that I'm simply not cut out for it. The Headspace app puts me straight to sleep — not necessarily an unpleasant side effect, but waking up on the carpet in a puddle of my own drool is, he admonishes me, missing the point.
I had given up on the idea of meditation altogether when I stumbled on a Buzzfeed headline that reframed the whole issue rather neatly:
"Satisfying is the new Zen - why GenZs are turning to mindless, repetitive tasks for stress relief."
If anyone knows about anxiety and nameless dread, it's that generation. I blame Instagram and the endless scroll, but let's face it, there's no shaking that demon off our shoulder at this point. The name of the game now is counterbalance. The article (well, let's be honest, the headline because who bothers to read the actual article?) helped me realize the unexpected reward of losing myself in a mindless task. Meditative versus Meditation.
And so I found an activity that offers the perfect balance of mindlessness, focus and sensual pleasure: milk frothing.
Frothing a metal cup full of cold milk requires patience. You softly swirl the pitcher under the steam wand in a delicate figure 8 as the milk whorls around like a living thing. Bubbles start to form on the surface. The bubbles grow and burst and grow again, climbing all over each other creating a delicate cloud that threatens to rise over the rim. A comforting custard-y smell rises to greet your nose and your hand can feel the glowing warmth through the metal. Then, the milk is perfect. And everything in the world also feels perfect just for that moment—you have achieved total zen. There's no match for that kind of satisfaction.
When I first discovered this, I went through a self-soothing phase where I was frothing milk obsessively. Cups and cups of it were ending up in Jerry's bowl — he's the ancient and obese ginger cat we seem to have adopted at the cafe. His previous owner, a former employee and family friend, moved to New York and is now living the artist's life — underfed, underwashed and fashionably smelly. We all agreed it would be better for the cat to stay with us where he could rely on a constant source of expensive kibble and gently frothed milk.
After a pointed intervention led by Natalie (who exercised her authority as cafe manager to inform me that if I was going to keep feeding the profits to the cat, she would be forced to cut the small salary I was drawing as owner), I'm banned from needless milk frothing. I'm on a strictly need-to-froth basis now.
But the flash of corporate PTSD that just snuck up on me has me feeling all on edge. I'll just make myself a nice, calming latte, I think. Will not serve it to the cat, but drink it myself.
Humming along to the 80s-90s Spotify playlist that blasts out of our speakers day and night, I prepare a double shot of espresso in my favourite mug. The rich home-roasted coffee fills my nose, reminding me again of how goddamned great life is. I bend over to retrieve the milk from the under-counter fridge at the exact moment the playlist switches over to the next song and the room fills with the voice of a whiny valley girl that sounds like it's aimed directly at me:
Oh my God, Becky, look at her butt...
It's the opening line of what is, undeniably, the most catchy (if problematic) song ever recorded. Two female voices spew obnoxious, not-okay-by-today's-standards body shaming verbal abuse at each other for a full 20 seconds before Sir Mix-A-Lot takes over with his iconic rap intro:
I like big butts and I cannot lie...
If you can't hear him in your head right now, you've been living under a rock (or must be under five years old).
This song is one of those rare, fragrant gems of early 90s hip hop that you can't help but dance to, no matter how cool (or uncool) you are. Like everything 90s, it's sexist, completely offensive, objectifies the hell out of women while still somehow celebrating them in a way that almost excuses it. Oh, that Sir Mix-A-Lot... what a naughty boy, you can imagine a grown-ass woman who should know better saying, while chucking him under the chin indulgently.
But now, I'm a grown-ass woman. And I definitely know better. Still, as my finger twitches toward the SKIP button, I find myself moving just a little to the undeniable rhythm. As a feminist, shouldn't I hate this song? I ask myself even as my hips start jockeying around a little behind my cafe apron.
So, fellas (yeah) fellas (yeah)
Has your girlfriend got the butt? (hell yeah)
Tell 'em to shake it (shake it) shake it (shake it)
Shake that healthy butt
Baby got back
What can I say? With a twinge of guilt, I give in to the music. Still holding the pitcher of milk in my left hand, my right hand reaches back and delivers a sonorous slap to my butt which responds to the smack like a thoroughbred at a starting gun, taking off now with purpose. It starts waggling around defiantly, swooping great big circles, and dropping low to the ground with dangerous (given my forty-something-year-old knees) frequency. Not to be left out, my top half adds in a little shimmy. The cold milk is splashing over the top of the pitcher, but my fierce desire to dance has taken over now. I gyrate across the empty cafe floor with wild abandon.
I feel fantastically free! Uninhibited! I am a glorious, bright spot of light in an otherwise dark universe. What's more, I am an incredible dancer! Why don't I dance more often? My god. If my husband could see me now, I think. He would fall to his knees with rapturous desire and be sorry for leaving his socks all over the floor and not treating me like the goddess I so clearly am!
I continue to dance with unabashed enthusiasm until the song winds down to its inevitable end, the topic of butts and really, really liking them having a kind of limited scope that even Sir Mix-A-Lot can't explore for longer than 4 minutes at a stretch. When it's over, I come to a stop, huffing un-athletically, trying not to notice that I've spilled milk absolutely everywhere. I straighten myself, raking a hand through my wild hair. I feel, suddenly, self-conscious and awkward about my private moment.
As I turn to fetch a towel and start the process of mopping up after myself, I nearly jump out of my skin with surprise. My eighteen-year-old daughter stands at the kitchen door. We aren't expecting her home from University until after first-term exams, and that's still weeks away, so for a moment, I think I must be imagining her there — an apparition from years past — but then I realize my ghost-daughter has a phone in her hand (goddamn teenagers and their omnipresent phones) and is doubled over in silent laughter.
"Maeve! Why are you here? I ... I was just..." I stumble through some words that are half denial of what she might have seen and half embarrassed apology.
"Mum!" she gasps, trying to recover. "Mum! What was THAT?"
"It was... twerking?"
She squints unbelievingly at me, so I continue.
"It's this dance people used to do in the '90s. It's like..." I consider shaking my butt again but decide against it.
"Okay, so you were 'twerking' whatever you think that means. It looked to me like you were dancing. You never dance."
"I do!"
"You so totally do not. I've never seen you dance. Not ever. Not even at Grandma's wedding when they played the Macarena and everybody danced."
I shrug. What can I say? The Macarena is not my jam.
"Well, Maeve, I used to dance when I was younger. And that particular song..."
But she's not listening to me. She's deep in her phone, bottom lip firmly between her teeth, poking away at the screen.
"What are you..." I say, trying to get her attention back.
"I'm posting it to the cafe's accounts, obvi." She graces me with an eye roll. "There. You're officially on TikTok."
"Tick-what? No! Don't post that." I beg beseechingly, moving to grab her phone.
She puts her hand up to stop me.
"I'm in charge of the cafe's social, right? You put me in charge."
That's true, I did. I let her create accounts on all the platforms for the cafe, but I thought it would be used to alert our small but loyal group of followers to the daily specials. Maybe post a food porn shot or two of the fresh baked goods. Not a highly embarrassing video of me dancing to the least feminist song in existence.
"Anyway," she says mildly. "It's done — look, you've already got a like."