There is an illusive line of demarcation that illustrates the difference between the character of a coffee drinker vs. that of tea drinker‘s. Occasionally, this inconsistency will be met with an analogy: he who drinks coffee also likes dogs and she who drinks tea also likes cats. That the former is typically a man in this simile and the latter a woman seems blasphemous if only because most of the men in my family have never so much as tried coffee and yet love canines.
But I don’t make the stats, I just present them.
The supposition, I guess, is that the dog owner/coffee consumer is presumably easier going. This, in spite of an addiction to third-party energy. The tea drinker is vaguely more timid and enjoys a cat because just like their owners, the felines take care of themselves. Or whatever.
But what about those of us who drink regular milk vs. those of us who have fallen victim to the plague that is a non-dairy, hot beverage accoutrement? Never mind the lactose intolerant who must forgo the former product in a struggle I like to Splat: Battle of the Bathroom. Almond or soy milk isn’t so much an option for the pant pooper as it is retaliation against his or her adoptive nickname. Mostly, I’m talking about (or is condemning?) someone who is like me and has never exhibited a negative reaction to milk-proper but snarls — straight up snarls — when a coffee shop does not serve almond or soy (or cashew or hemp or coconut) milk.
Am I simply pretentious or is something else at play?
There is of course the argument that the latter milks (mylks?) are healthier. That’s why I’ve convinced myself that I consume them, at least. They all seem to moonlight as viable dairy avengers that don’t create mucus in the human body. And you know what they say, right? Less boogers = happier adults. Frankly speaking, too, they seem lighter — on the mind and the stomach. On the mind because there are no udder-to-mouth implications involved and on the stomach because, I don’t know, I’m excellent at tricking my mind into believing whatever I want it to believe?
Here’s the thing, though, if there is one thing I have learned from my dad — one thing only — it is that we have been put on this earth to eat and eat well. So if milk is your bag (and considering my relationship with ice cream, it is my fucking suitcase), you should request an extra large. If it’s not, don’t. So, does this mean that I’m sacrificing joie de vivre (joy of living) for peur de mourir (fear of dying)? Dramatic, I know, but ask yourself this question then double down using your fingertips and answer right below in the cogitation station depository a.k.a. home.