Encouraged by my daughter to join her at a coffee shop, I wrapped up my responsibilities at home and headed out for some much needed down time and brain clearing. We try to encourage each other’s writing endeavors—mine more sparse than hers—so I figured I’d give a new environment a shot.
She didn’t remember that it was the one-year anniversary of our little two-day jaunt to Eureka Springs, Arkansas for some writing and relaxing. (That was the trip when she recommended I “write something pithy”!) Had it not been for a Memories reminder from Facebook, I would have forgotten as well. My subdural hematoma likely foreshadowed on that trip by an episode of double vision, I now have my brain surgery as a convenient excuse for a faulty memory.
Tonight, after nearly two weeks of severe storms, and a tornado that decided to make a path over our house, I was starting off rather spent. But I knew I could get the necessary infusion of caffeine at a coffee shop, preferably landing me somewhere between “alert” and “jittery.”
She recommended a honey brown sugar latte. Ordering hers first, I grabbed a spoon and made my way back to the table for a taste test. “Yummy!” It wasn’t quite a substitute for dessert but all the same on the sweet side. I headed back to the counter to order one for myself.
Fumbling with my charge card, its chip, and the little white box to pay, I wasn’t quite sure whether to insert my card somewhere or place it on the surface of the box. Yes, I looked a bit awkward, likely providing a chuckle to the twenty-something year-old barista.
I was feeling a bit like Kimmy Schmidt coming out of the underground bunker. I haven’t been out much for many, many months. Businesses and restaurants have gone and come while I’ve been “to ground.” New technology has been introduced. And shows like “The Big Bang Theory” and “Game of Thrones” have wrapped before I’ve seen a single episode. (Life apparently moves quickly above ground!) For the Kimmys of the world, I guess there’s always Netflix.
Music played overhead and a piece of white plastic peeked out from underneath my daughter’s red hair. I was wrapped in a sensory time warp. The newest Apple AirPod was protruding from my daughter’s ear while The Beatles’ Revolver album (“I owned that album!”) played overhead.
I’m in awe how Gen Y/Millennials can literally filter the noise of the world, all the while staying connected to their Facebook newsfeed, Instagram social stories, and an alternative track from their iPhone.
“Wanna hear my new favorite music?”
“Sure!” I said.
She handed me an AirPod, directing me to place it in my right ear. (There’s a left and a right?) I’m sure I had that “what do I do with this?” look on my face.
She began telling me the artist’s name.“It’s…” I had resorted to lip reading, distracted by the alternative music in my right ear and “Good Day Sunshine” taking over my brain in my left.
“Far Ass?” (I likely said it a little louder than she was expecting. In fact, I said it a bit louder than I was expecting, now seemingly shouting over “Yellow Submarine”!)
“Hold on. I’ll text it to you.”
“Far Caspian,” came across my phone. I have no idea how I got “Far Ass.” (Clearly, I’m a mole coming to the surface, overwhelmed by the light.)
“Nice!” I said, referring to her choice of music but likely too loud again. (Geez, why am I shouting?)
“‘We all live in a yellow submarine?'”she said. “Who wouldn’t have assumed you were high with lyrics like that!” (Yes, she makes me laugh.)
I quipped back, “Did you know you can feel the beat of the music as a pulse in your ear?” She shot me a curious but sweet “Mom, have you been living under a rock?” expression. (Yes, Kimmy, you have been in the bunker for far, far too long.)
The barista appeared at our table. “It’s five minutes ‘til closing.”
Wrapping the evening up with caffeine jitters and a literal beat in my ear, I have a new appreciation for the sensory overload that is a Gen Y/Millennial.
Time to go home, Kimmy, and climb back in the bunker! I’ll emerge again another day.
Thanks for the invite, daughter! It was fun!