Embarrassment is a staple of the Berkeley experience. In this masochistic pursuit of my bachelor’s degree, I can claim no shortage of humiliating moments. One particular moment occurs repetitively — a dynamic generously fueled by dread-filled procrastination and insomnia: starting my day after 12 pm. And by “starting my day” I mean peeling my begrudging eyes open to stare at my phone for an hour — and actually “getting out of the house” an average of two hours after that.
On these days, with an impressive air of stoicism, I’ve still shuffled into Caffe Strada to order breakfast, my treasured Bacon Wrap and Mocha Bianca, in spite of it all. It’s usually 4 p.m., and the baristas aren’t blind to my state of affairs; how could they be? In a rush to leave home, I likely missed many opportunities to mitigate evidence: the sleepy crust, perched in the corners of my half-opened eyes, or the mis-matched socks (okay fine, this is most days), or my irreversible bed-head — a brutal reminder of my genius decision to shower at 4:15 am.
It’s not that the baristas have ever said anything during these particularly embarrassing late-starts, but I’ve always known they perceived me.
But for the first time, redemption: this morning, I entered Strada before noon — actually, it was 8:30 am — where I was slapped in the face with further confirmation of my typical publicly-disheveled nature. When I strutted in to face the baristas who’ve perceived me for years, they smiled with a level of surprise that partly broke my soul. One male barista, who’s seen me during periods of college I’ve intentionally forgotten, welcomed me at the counter, grinning.
“Hey, nice going on the early-morning-start!”
How could a single compliment break the other half of my soul, and whatever embedded souls lay within? Well, I didn’t arrive during the hour of 9:00 am after waking up. This was not my first stop on a departure from bed! Oh, no, how silly that would be. My punctuality-feigning arrival was by way of Main Stacks, the literary abode where I spent the night, starting a lab report due tonight that I’ve had a month to complete, and starting (plagiarizing) two problem sets that are two and four weeks late, respectively.
I don’t deserve this compliment, dear sir. I’ve literally been awake for 34 hours. Don’t let my devilishly cute and color-coordinated outfit from yesterday fool you. This isn’t the put-togetherness you think you’re perceiving — this is a blatant personification of “time management issues,” the human-embodiment of ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ otherwise known as ‘the 6 hours I must spend on TikTok before going to sleep.’ I’m so ashamed. Your genuine compliment is wasted. I can’t accept this praise for such deceptive behavior. It’s wrong to take credit for things we haven’t earned the right to claim.
“Thank you!” I chirped, unintentionally popping my reddened, desperate eyes.
He’ll never know I’m a fucking fraud. None of the baristas will. I’ve finally made them proud, only propped up by temporally-convenient lies. I shall repent. Maybe this is the life I’m condemned to have — ‘I’ll probably earn my college diploma at 11:59,’ I think to myself, grabbing a paper straw. Plastering energy onto my unslept face with Strada elixir in hand, I turn back and yelp “Thank you!” again before shuffling back out to run to lecture, only 40 minutes late.