Growing up in the ‘90s there were two types of families: You were either a Sweet‘N Low house or an Equal one. The sound of a ripping pink packet (we were a Sweet’N Low fam) against my mom’s long acrylic nails conjures memories of chicken fingers dipped in honey mustard and eaten in a big booth in the smoking section at the diner near my nana’s house. Empty soggy pink wrapper scraps stuck to the saucers, my mom and nana carefully reapplying lipstick that had succumbed to a shared bagel and lox platter and the rims of their coffee cups.
Though Sweet’N Low has been around since the ‘50s, today we know, even more so than we knew in that diner booth, that it’s not exactly health food. Many places these days opt instead to offer natural sugar, simple syrup, a seldom Splenda or two as caffeine accoutrements. But my mom & nana remain faithful, toting the pink stuff around in little plastic baggies — just in case.
Unlike so many of the qualities I’ve inherited from my matriarchy, a taste for saccharin isn’t one of them. I always found it to be too sweet, too artificial, too much not like coffee. I don’t judge them for liking it, it just wasn’t my cup of — you know.
My feelings about it remind me of this man I once briefly dated who, on our very last date, revealed to me that he didn’t like condiments. “Why would I want my food to taste like other food?” He asked defiantly as I tried to keep down my tacos. How had I shared meals with this man and not noticed such a flagrant flaw?
I’m not saying I was wrong to end things over his unhinged feelings over food flavoring. But if you’re out there and reading this, what I’m saying is in this one extremely specific case, I agree. Coffee should taste like coffee.
But there is something I do like, something I’ve pretended not to like, to myself and others, for years. And I’m done hiding it.
Sometimes, instead of using half & half, I like to use a little coffee creamer.
PAUSE! FOR! REACTION!
I found myself confronted with this reality recently on a trip to h̶e̶a̶v̶e̶n̶ Wegmans. I’d arrived there with my friend Rachel, but we planned to go our separate ways post shop. We dispersed in produce and set off on our separate shopping experiences (which is, truly, the only way to describe shopping at Wegmans).
I’ve been looking all over for the Chobani coffee creamer and I can’t find it anywhere, so I reached for a jug of Coffee Mate Natural Bliss (I should mention here this piece is in no way sponsored or affiliated with Coffee Mate but if and when they should want to work with me I’m available) when a familiar panic washed over me. I realized I was sort of worried I’d run back into her in one of the aisles, that she, one of my very closest friends, who I’ve spent the larger part of this past year seeing every single day, would see the creamer. That she’d realize I wasn’t the person who she thought I was. A person who sometimes takes their coffee… semi-sweet.
I stood there in the milk aisle recounting every food shopping experience I’ve ever had trying to trace back the feeling. Then the store had to close and the staff kindly asked me to leave.
Just kidding. But I did realize that this was something of a pattern. That for years, I had experienced anxiety over various contents of my cart. I brought it up to her later (something I previously wouldn’t have done -- growth!!) and she was confused. “You just don’t seem like the kind of person who would worry about that kind of thing,” she said.
Naturally, I then spent the first 20 minutes of therapy talking about it, before I quickly (or slowly, if you ask my therapist) realized that of course, it’s not about the stupid coffee creamer. I don’t care about or judge anyone for the way they like their coffee, why am I judging myself? And quite frankly, who the fuck cares how I take my coffee, let alone one of my closest friends who I share everything — things much more consequential than coffee — with?
It’s about how we present in the world versus how, and who, we really are.
This manifested early on in the pandemic in a different way. Single, living in a studio by myself and scared, so, so scared of what lurked beyond the four walls of my apartment, I began to sort of resent friends who had fled the city with their partners. I felt a little bit left in the lurch, a little bit like no one was checking in on me when I so clearly needed to be checked in on.
But that’s just it -- only I knew I was struggling. On Instagram, over text and Zoom and Twitter -- I was FINE! More than fine. I was mastering lip syncs from famous movies, painting my apartment, cooking and baking and doing stupid shit on the internet. People would reach out to compliment my pandemic productivity. Ha.
I was presenting like I was fine. I was totally not fine, crippled with anxiety, constantly worried about what could maybe, potentially, most certainly happen to me and everyone I love.
People who deal with trauma and grief (or, in my case don’t deal with it for 20 years) have this tendency to want to be the loudest, put on the show, keep the people laughing, be the smartest, the coolest, the most sophisticated coffee drinker in the room -- because the alternative, the quiet, the vulnerability, the sitting in silence and actually feeling things -- it can be too much. By the same token, If no one knows my secrets, no one will leave me. Even if the secret is goddamn coffee creamer.
My shame surrounding not being EXACTLY who I think others think I am (say that 10 times fast) manifests by some non-existent metric I’ve created over how I should want to drink coffee. It is oddly specific — honestly it feels so dumb even thinking about it now — but it could be anything, of course. And it’s a surefire way to prevent relationships of all kinds from developing and growing. In keeping these things close, we prevent anyone else from ever getting too close.
So, no more of that. I like coffee creamer. It’s good. Whatever your version of coffee creamer is, please know that I think it’s cool and you’re cool for liking it. Here are a few other good things I’ve been eating, drinking and loving this week, too:
Sol de Janeiro Bom Dia Bright Body Cream — It’s supposed to work wonders for keratosis pilaris, the bumpy red skin some people (like me) have on the back of their arms that I have to google for spelling every time I talk about it. I haven’t used it long enough to make that call yet but it smells like heaven and feels great on the skin.
The Karoun full fat plain yogurt I’ve been eating every morning that I got from Sahadis in Brooklyn.
My new bubblegum pink ARQ set. ARQ in general makes undergarments that are comfortable and make me feel super sexy and confident!!!
Jeff Warren’s daily meditations on the Calm app. His no bullshit approach to meditation has turned me into a believer.
My first ever byline not for HuffPost! Sorry for the plug, but I’ve been reading Cosmo since way before I was supposed to be reading Cosmo and I’m proud of myself for getting a story published on its digital pages.
And my Trade Coffee subscription, which affordably introduces me to coffee roasters from all over the country and, you know, always pairs well with a splash of creamer.
I hope you get a lot or at least a little bit of the things you love this weekend. And keep sending me your feedback. And your coffee creamer recs. I love you.
Love,
Jamie AF.
I know this is besides the point but I'm personally Team Sucralose (Splenda for those who have name for brand name things that are perfectly good generic).
Wait... so, this fashionable pouch I have in my purse filled with trivia packets... is that cool/uncool?! 🤣