As an angsty young man growing up in El Paso, I remember when Barnes & Noble first came to town. I was so in awe of the cafe: it seemed full of smart, sophisticated people sipping drinks, reading books, writing novels, and having intense, intellectual discussions. Up to that point, coffee shops like that existed to me only as the backdrop of a story. Over time, they became an integral part of how I imagined my life would be like as an adult.
I’m not sure when I first articulated it, but it was my fantasy for years: a world-weary philosopher lounging in a trendy cafe, penning my latest treatise on the tragic absurdities of life, no doubt surrounded by fawning young women, eager to experience my penetrating intellect. As I grew up I began to look back on that scenario with a bit of chagrin, but recently I came to realize this fantasy has mostly come to fruition. Very world-weary, lots of coffee shops, unfortunately a bit light on the female admirers.
During my 20s, most of my cafe time was spent at either one of the bookstores or Kinley’s, a small place near the university which is surprisingly still around nearly two decades later. Almost from the start, meeting women was a huge motivating factor for my coffee shop excursions. More accurately, the idea of meeting women. You see, in all these years the number of times I’ve struck up a conversation with someone out in public is vanishingly small. I recognize that many women are often subjected to the unwanted attention of men. Additionally, I know how much I prefer to be left alone when I’m reading or writing and I’d hate to inflict that frustration on someone else.
Despite this, I still spend copious amounts of time at cafes. I was tempted to say that I’m not picky, but that’s not entirely true: I’m just not a snob about it. I go to locally-owned places very frequently, but I’ll also go to Starbucks without any hesitation. I calculate how much money I spend at these places every month and it never fails to depress me. Sometimes I find myself sitting in my car in the parking lot because I don’t even want to go in, but I often feel like I have nowhere else to go.
That’s a big problem I have, honestly. I often get extremely restless at home. It’s an exceptionally rare day when I haven’t left the house within an hour or two of waking. I’ll tend to the animals, make sure nothing needs my attention, then I’ll “venture out” as I often call it. Usually, I will stay out the majority of the day, only coming home when obligations call to me. During the school year this is even easier to accomplish since I’m at work for much of that time.
So, what the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I do this? I’ve thought about this a lot, talked to therapists and friends, written in journals. I’m not entirely sure. There’s definitely a compulsive aspect to it, as well as a bit of FOMO. Despite the fact I don’t talk to women when I’m out in public, I’ve mostly given up on dating apps, so it follows that I’m not going to meet anyone if I’m huddled in my room all day. Further supporting evidence for this is the fact that most of the places I frequent are places where there are other regulars I’ve grown accustomed to. Maybe somewhere in my broken mind I’ve decided that is an acceptable surrogate for a social network.
I also find it very difficult to concentrate at home. There’s always some sort of distraction. My desk is uncomfortable, the pets need attention, it’s hot. The list goes on, but this is troubling on its own because I want to buy a house soon and part of me recoils at the idea of buying a place that I’m not going to want to spend my time. Contentment isn’t something I’m particularly good at finding.
I’ve been single for quite some time now but, let me assure you, this dysfunctional behavior doesn’t cease when I’m in a relationship. A depressingly long list of ex-girlfriends would gladly attest that I still mostly wanted to sit around coffee shops then too. Even when I imagine what my life would be like upon reaching financial independence, things don’t really seem all that different. Perhaps I’d feel a bit less guilty about spending so much money and maybe I’d not focus quite as much on my budget spreadsheets while sipping my coffee.
Obviously, this is just part of a larger problem I have, namely being fucking insane. I’ve mostly come to terms with my irreparably broken brain, but there are certainly improvements to be made. None of us know how much time we have, but I sincerely feel like I’m not spending it wisely.
