Target Starbucks

I love my job. I love my coworker friends and our Top Gun high fives. I love the Christmas hip hop remixes piped through every shift. I love the customer interactions. I know it's not socially acceptable to be a barista forever, but I'm going to do it for as long as I love it.

During a rare lull of the Saturday rush, I observed as a 30-something brunette mother of two handed her kids handfuls of $20 bills and sent them into the fluorescent bright whites and reds that distinctly separated the calm cappuccino colored vibe we created in this corner of the superstore.  After she gave them brief instructions on who to buy for and how to spend their money, she spun around and faced me with a forced but genuine smile.

"Hello!" she said with a quick and heavy breath out as an imaginary timer began her temporary solace, "Can I get a grande skinny pumpkin spice latte with my $5 gift card?" 

"For sure! I know you said skinny, but do you want whip cream on that?" I asked with a playful smile I hoped she could clearly see under my dark brown Santa beard, marker ready in my hand to record her response. After a lengthy hesitation only taken by overweight soccer moms who are constantly torn between watching their calories and taking rare opportunities to treat themselves, she declined dejectedly and I obliged politely. "$5.31. SO CLOSE to making that gift card!"

"I can scrounge up some change, thanks," she replied and went to set up camp in a corner table with her Kindle amongst clusters of shoppers and employees on break. It didn't look like much, but to offer people that kindness and the space for themselves is all part of what I love.

My family gives me a hard time about being a coffee slave at 28. I started in high school as a part time job, but when I couldn't decide on a major after graduation and took a college break to work, I realized I was happy, so I just stayed. Why go into debt for something I hate - or at best, can tolerate - when doing this still makes me happy and affords me the uptown apartment and life I enjoy? Maybe I'm not making as much as my banker brother and maybe I'm not as socially put together as my married sister, but I'm happy. 

Laundromat

So THIS is the Rudolph American classic I heard so much about. I get the appeal, but maybe it would mean more if Zhen and I weren't watching it between wash cycles at the 24/7 laundromat. 

The place itself is fine - clean with the consistent scent of Tide and warmer than what the landlord allows despite the infamous Minnesota temperatures. I actually enjyed our weekly visits here, surrounded by the industrial hum of the machines, but secluded to our own world behind a wall of white metal. It just seemed that Rudolph was the type of movie to be enjoyed Norman Rockwell style - with the nuclear family near a cozy fireplace with their dog at the dad's feet and kids with their eyes wide and absorbing the dark beauty of the Land of Misfit Toys.

Zhen is the one who got us to America, although I know I wanted it more. When he was accepted to the University's international student program, I didn't hesitate to leave my studies in Beijing and follow him. We don't have the American dream - yet - but I love our life regardless. We both come from wealthy families in China, so it has been an interesting social experiment to live as lower-middle-class Americans in our cheap east side apartment that the housing stipend allows. I wasn't aware that laundromat needs had any connotations until I observed our fellow washers.

Last week, it was the Hispanic family with four kids under eight, the eldest minding the younger ones while Mom sorts their tiny clothes. Then there's usually the caucasian mom with the dark children who often leaves them in the car to watch their movies in seclusion while she sorts the colors and white in peace, but looks so joyful and fun when she goes back to check on them. But this Saturday night, the only other one in our audience of Christmas specials is a frazzled mom who looks young enough to be out at the bar scene, but her tired eyes and final clean mismatched outfit gives away her status. She looks wisftful at the television, taking for granted that she's watched this every year since before she could remember and understands exactly what the significance of Yukon Cornelius is to the story. It's all very quaint, very American, and very enjoyable.

But the best part of all of it is sitting knee to knee in cold plastic chairs with my smart and loving husband, engineering academic books scattered among the undersized round linoleum table, enjoying this new life together, watching as a mythical claymation reindeer overcomes years of turmoil to save the world on Christmas day.