I Was Ashamed When I Forgot How to Order My Favorite Tea
Why does aging have to be so public?
A cluster of customers sort out their orders ahead of me at the Roasterie Coffee Shop.
The last time I was here, I had to ask, “What are the two kinds of green tea you offer?” And the time before that, and the time before that, too. Today, however, I remember the names. It’s important to remember because one of the green teas is sublime. The other makes me gag.
My turn. I open my mouth. The names have flown from my brain. I say, “Blueberry muffin, for here.”
The muffin buys me time.
While the barista searches the bakery case for the muffin, I search the overhead menu board for the tea section. So many words. Too many words. Mocha. Latte. Smoothie. I’m here every week. I should know this. I can’t ask for help.
There it is on the board — Hot Teas. But that’s it. The board provides no details. No help. Maybe the list of teas is sitting on the counter, not on the board. Reward cards. Granola bars. Chocolate bars.
Why is this so confusing? Damn it.
My favorite tea starts with J and A, and there’s an N in there somewhere. Unfortunately, the line clogs up behind me.
I panic. “And hot green tea. Jasmine.”
At my table, a server sets the mug in front of me. “Here you go.” As she bops back to her station, the energy of youth bedazzles the air around her — a soundless fireworks display—a spark of her vitality lands on me.
I lean over the mug to take in the steam. Gag.
Oh.
Right.
The one I like is Japanese green tea.
A lump rises in my throat. This is aging. When does acceptance begin? I watch myself die, one cell at a time. When does grief end?
At home, in my bedroom, my snake plant is terminal.
Once invincible in a pot on the floor, the tips of the leaves had reached to my waist, their deep green popping against the orange bedroom wall. This is the only house plant my non-green thumb will grow, but now the leaves are bleeding a gummy ooze. One by one, they seep, turn brown, and wither.
I was going to return the plant to the nursery, but I procrastinated. Returning purchases is an inconvenience. Besides, what if they blamed me for the disease?
Who knows, the plant might recover.
Doubtful. From forty stalks, only a dozen remain.
I decide to keep the snake plant and contemplate its death.
There’s no question; I hate Jasmine tea.
The question is: will I sit here sipping shame instead of my favorite tea?
It’s one thing to face your diminishing abilities in private, quite another to admit them out loud to a non-medical young person. When does acceptance begin? The chair scrapes against the floor as I rise. And then I trudge over to the counter, wallet in one hand, steaming mug of old age in the other.
I extend the mug to the barista, along with a five-dollar bill. “Excuse me. I ordered the wrong tea. I wanted the Japanese but ordered the Jasmine.”
She reaches for the cup, waves the money away. “We’ll take care of that for you.” Her good cheer is contagious. My embarrassment evaporates.
And when she brings the Japanese Sencha to my table, I wave the scent into my grateful nose. Delicate. Sublime.
Acceptance begins now. And now.
