Three years ago I bought a coffee maker. It was a tiny Mr. Coffee that brewed no more than eight cups. Or was it six? At most I’ve only ever brewed two because as it turns out, I really don’t like coffee.
It’s funny how these realizations occur after you’ve already spent money on the perfect coffee cups, two kinds of coffee, and about six different flavored creamers. Fortunately this was less expensive than massage therapy school — only after I graduated and got licensed did I realize that I didn’t really like touching people.
My coffee maker has sat on my counter for years with the illusion that I’m an adult who occasionally likes a cup of joe. I mostly kept it around for overnight guests, as I’m a thoughtful hostess.
Last weekend, I sold my Mr. Coffee at my grandparents’ garage sale. Someone walked away with it for a measly $3 (don’t even get me started on the ridiculous haggling that went on there). I was happy to see it go, especially since the manfriend is bringing his big-ass coffee maker when he moves in at the end of the month.
However, while I was having a hard time adjusting to Monday, I thought, “Self, I think you want a big cup of coffee this morning.” So I went into the kitchen only to find the corner of my counter bare (and imaginary dollar signs).
On any other day, I’d go as far as brewing the cup and then dumping it out because without some insanely flavored creamer, I won’t drink it. Then I’d feel bad for wasting a perfectly good cup of coffee. But the fact that I didn’t even have the option upset me so much that I briefly regretted selling my Mr. Coffee.
Then I remembered that I’m crazy.
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