Chapter 1

A one to two to three ratio of vanilla syrup is added to each successively higher volume cup before adding a combination of dark cold brew coffee and sweet cream foam that depending on the flavor, requires either a scoopful of malt powder or caramel with sea salt. I was taking down notes. “You have such good handwriting,” said the young woman with winged black eyeliner that outlined hazel eyes beaming beneath a bleach blonde-dyed fringe. “You look like a reader,” she told me, all knowingly. I was behind the counter of a coffeehouse where I was in training to become a barista and did not feel it was the right place and time to give my ‘I’m anything but fine’ unabridged reply: I’m not a reader. I’m more of a writer. Instead, I answered with, “I’ve had a lot of schooling,” which was true. A self-proclaimed academic, I had attended one of the nation’s top ten high schools, Ivy League universities, and a whole host of other academically inclined research programs and internships. This exchange with a svelte figured barista, who concocted caloric beverages with nonchalance, was no exception.

During another shift, another barista who was too likely a decade younger than me and belonging to the Generation Z population, whipped out her cell phone while on the clock and exclaimed, “This is my puppy!” With an aversion to all things domestic and furry, I managed to squeak out “cute.’” That same day, yet another barista showed me stickers that she planned on handing out in a concerted effort to establish customer relations. I wasn’t amused and was instead horrified at the gesture.

Some baristas became aware of my age, 32, which yielded two reactions. One was shock. Even I look in the mirror and have trouble remembering my age. Without a wrinkle or gray hair in sight, I would have asked for my ID when purchasing Bellini at the local market as well. The second reaction was in the form of an apologetic statement: “That’s ok. You’re all the more wiser.” Perhaps some type of wisdom did inform my decision to take on this job as a coffee barista at this age. I did not don an apron that cloaks my corporate-like outfits for the minimum wage. Instead, this job was meant to save me from my over decade-long eating disorder – anorexia nervosa- and depression. Three weeks in and it has not done much other than to distract me for a handful of hours a week.

The manager and barista betrothed with the black apron of mastery in the art of brewing, steaming, and coffee culture –replicating drinks made famous on social media – is training me. Her first task was instructing me to grind and brew coffee according to a cadence. Every 30 minutes I would have to make a new batch of coffee. To ensure that I kept to schedule, I had to use a stopwatch that I could either leave next to the coffeemaker or wear on my person. To have a ticking time bomb that would eventually beep on my chest, struck me as oddly macabre. It was as if I was back in my basement, performing HIIT - high intensity interval training – routines that included squat jumps, burpees, and running in place. A periodic beep informed me of when to switch the exercise I was doing. It was I and the stopwatch in a dank basement outfitted with a matte black exercise mat that I left with sweat angels  - the marks my body would leave upon me finishing and lying flat on the floor. My knees would buckle beneath me as I clambered up the stairs. I would blink and see stars. Sometimes I would make my way to the floor-length mirror, lift up my damp shirt and see my heart visibly beating beneath my rib cage. Sinewy blood vessels mapped my arms in green and blue.

When I shuddered, the manager said as an aside, “some people find wearing the stopwatch triggering.” She started to laugh. I stared at her and she quickly stopped. Not even five minutes later she mentioned on her headset that she couldn’t drink the highly crafted coffee concoctions because she was on a diet. ‘Diet’ reverberated in my ear. I ignored it, as I had trained myself to do ever since I was forced into treatment for anorexia nervosa. “I’m intermediate fasting,” she said. I quickly corrected her internally before someone else did. She was intermittent fasting and could only eat between 12 pm and 8 pm. I was triggered, but that did not stop me from my incessant thoughts about eating later, after my shift: two soft-boiled eggs and eight chia seed-infused crackers, followed by an inordinate amount of fruit to fill me up. These were part of my safe foods – the items I did not fear eating because I did not associate them with weight gain. They were bland, mostly unprocessed, whole foods made up of lean proteins and no refined carbs. I no longer fasted. I no longer starved myself – not to the degree that results in weight loss. I was beyond that physically, having gained over 50 pounds in the span of three years. Still, I was triggered by her well-thought out plan to shed pounds in pursuit of vanity. She had an upcoming wedding to attend.

A few weeks ago, I too attended a wedding. I was wearing a sari for the first time: a backless silk blouse with a low neckline that bound my chest like a bodice. My petticoat circled my hips. My entire torso and waist would be exposed if it weren’t for the yards of sheer fabric wrapped and pleated around my body that let other steal glances of my tummy with every step I took and didn’t take. My midsection was bloated in spite of the abdominal and core work I performed in and out of the gym. When physically restoring weight after severely restricting food intake for a long duration, a bulk of the nutrition is drawn toward the abdominal area where there are vital organs that need immediate attention. Eventually, the weight is meant to distribute after eating adequately and consistently – something I still have not committed to. For this reason, my midsection remains rotund, perpetually bloated, and makes it impossible to wear anything but drawstring- waist pants.

The dress code at the coffeehouse is preppy without the prep. That is to say, only a palette of cool colors are permitted – navy blue, white (tops only), black, and khaki – colors that enable the forest green apron to pop.  I walk into work in creative-corporate chic, as if I was as a staff writer or editorial associate at a magazine. I dressed in a V-neck white top purchased while on a trip to Rhode Island from a New England stalwart shop. The top was tucked into textured grey harem pants I picked up from a boutique in a chic Long Island village. Another time I wore a Victorian ruffled collared button down shirt tucked in an elastic waist pair of black denim pants and patent leather wingtip black oxford shoes. My manager insists that I dress more comfortably. “Wear jeans, like us,” she said on more than one occasion. Jeans were my enemy. They were uncomfortable reminders of thigh gap I no longer had. The jean’s waist no longer loosely balanced on my hipbones that once upon time had thrust out.  She had no idea that what I was wearing were the few items left in my wardrobe that fit this three-year-old body. Three years since I walked out of my last form of inpatient treatment for anorexia nervosa.

I’m about five weeks into being a barista, and since I am part-time, only about ten shifts old. I only know how to concoct some shaken cold drinks and warm bakery items, paninis, and sandwiches. My therapist asked me if I would be triggered working in a place where I would have to mix dairy and alternatives into my go-to choice of black coffee. I confidently responded that I wouldn’t be. Of course, I haven’t attempted the task yet, but what I did not expect was being triggered when at the “warming” position. Smelling the aroma wafting out from the oven brought on flashbacks. I would inhale deeply, just like I did when I was starving myself while in graduate school. I would walk down Broadway on the Upper West Side that was lined with outdoor dining patios, pining for the crusty contents of the breadbasket dabbed in a golden puddle of olive oil and the crisp lettuce in preparation for the main course. I would slow down my naturally quick gait to smell the food cart fumes.

My body and mind are still in a state of malnourishment. In over eight years, I still haven’t had my period despite weight restoration. While at work, I’m inordinately careful not to touch the food I heat up with my hands. It is only in my mind’s eye that I see my hand release its grip from the shrink-wrapped plastic cover or parchment paper that acts as a barrier between my skin and the palm-sized chocolate chip cookie. I can just see myself breaking it in half in slow motion, identical to the social media reel made famous by breaking apart the thick cookie made in the famous New York City-outpost, Levain Bakery. I see melted chocolate staining my unpainted fingernails as per mandated by the coffeehouse. I was triggered by the food, by the fact that no one had prior knowledge of my battle with an eating disorder that almost took my life a few years ago and is still taking my life now.

They don’t know me. They don’t know the vibrancy that dimmed, evolved, and transitioned into an evident depression. “Are you ok?” my manager asked me. “Do you want to sit down?” she asked me twice. My façade provides no farce. I did not want to be there. I never saw my life pan out this way. Graduating with degrees from establishments so many others and I hold on pedestals, I never imagined that I would be in training to work at a coffeehouse. It was not only that I housed other, less humbling aspirations, but it was also the time. The meeting was outside of my availability, but was mandatory. I was nearing 8 pm. The latest I would work was 6 pm so that I could be home in time to take my second shower, shampoo and condition my hair, cook and eat dinner and take an hour to consume fruit while watching Gilmore Girls before taking my vitamins and melatonin, going to bed, and waking up by 4:45 the next morning.

I had to wake up at that time not for a job, not to care for my imaginary child, nor to send my imaginary husband off to work. I had to give myself ten minutes to prepare my breakfast that I measured with a scale and measuring cups paired with a cup of black coffee that brewed in the meantime. I then would give myself up to thirty minutes to eat before race-walking on the treadmill in the basement for another thirty minutes. I had to move my body as my permission to eat. I was also moving my body because I could not escape comparing myself to my mother, my senior by 27 years old, who never missed a day on the treadmill. As you could deduce, my mind was in overdrive throughout the meeting. Still, I tried to pay attention, if anything, to make the time pass by. I learned how to make a latte and also learned how to implement the acronym, LATTE -Listen, Acknowledge, Think, Take Action, and Explain – to liaise between the customer and company.

My manager picked me out of the group of thirty or so twenty-something year-olds. “What did you learn today?” she asked me. This was the third time that she called on me. They did not know me. They did not know that I was never called out and instead called on. I was always the girl who voluntarily raised her hand to answer questions, initiate discussions, and volunteer to read. The same person who would soon enough become my best friend called me “goody two-shoes” in grade school. I was still in shock at her prodding into my presence of mind. I quickly shook away the thought of being a subpar student and instead reasoned that she called on me because of my unmistakable presence. I know me.