Today, something magical happened. I was an ordinary, black coffee-drinking, cheesy-graphic-tee-wearing human being, and then the box arrived.
It was wrapped in plain brown shipping paper, with no particular markings to denote where it came from, because if anyone—anyone—knew what was truly inside, they'd clearly try to steal it. I approached it with some trepidation, because honestly, who trusts an unmarked package? For all I know it could contain a human head—or worse, all those Smash Mouth and Chumbawamba albums I ordered back when every TV blared "Get 13 CDs for a Penny!" commercials in the late '90s.
Cautiously, I unwrapped and opened the box, and in what can only be described as a melodious chorus of my own high-pitched squealing, I uncovered an orange notecard and knit coffee-cup sleeve. There, in gold-embossed letters I learned I had become an official member of the Orange Sleeve Society, Starbucks' insider-y club for lovers of the Pumpkin Spice Latte.
The 'Bucks had deemed me worthy. I was one of them.
At first, I told myself I wouldn't let it change me. How could it? It was just a notecard with a simple poem—"You love pumpkin / you love spice / Enjoy this knitted / Holding device"—and an orange-and-white "Team PSL" sweater for my latte.
But, within minutes, something happened. I can't explain it, other than it was like the moment that box opened, I went from Laney Boggs with glasses in She's All That, to Laney Boggs with contacts, who dated Freddie Prinze Jr. and group-danced at prom like no one's business.
I started scanning Zappos for Uggs, while opening another tab for North Face jackets. I wanted to burn all of my regular (read: boooring) scarves for Infinity ones, because you can totally double-wrap them! They're like the autumnal, outerwear version of a statement necklace! And omigosh, I need, need, need a Michael Kors handbag. Or a Kate Spade clutch. Or both. Definitely both.
I can't bear the thought of wearing jeans—so restrictive!—so I've traded them in for Lululemon leggings. My friends complain that I've changed, but as S'bucks outsiders, they just don't know what it's like being part of a secret society.
"Why does it always sound like you're asking a question, when you're clearly making a statement?" they ask.
I don't know what they're talking about?
They groan that I call everything cute, and that I no longer pronounce the word like a normal person; it's more like, "kuh-yuuuute," stretching that vowel for as long as humanly possible. Psssh. And that I abbreviate everything. But whatevs. They're just jeally of my PSL VIP status, obvs.
People ask what really goes on in the Orange Sleeve Society, but like my new fave show, Gossip Girl, that's a secret I'll never tell. Largely because I'm not so sure what the secret is. But, you know, I'm sure it's a big one.
Like, if Starbucks opens a speakeasy, I'll prob know first. Or, like, releases a new drink. Right?
I'm not saying I've joined something as big as the Skull and Bones; I'm saying this is bigger. Have you seen the rabid fanbase behind the PSL? They're—I mean, we're—intense. I wouldn't be surprised if every future president is a member of the Orange Sleeve Society. (Prospective candidates for 2016, you better get on that. Stat.) It just feels good to be part of something larger than myself, you know?
In fact, it's so empowering that I'm thinking of stepping up my game in all areas of my life. Like, I'm thinking about finally trying all 4,326 DIY projects I've pinned to my "Feeling Crafty" board. And launching a vlog for my Yankee Candle hauls, because do you have any idea how many scented candles they have?! There's a scent for everything! Ev-er-y-thing.
My knowledge of the perfect cup of coffee seems to have mushroomed the second I slid that lovely "knitted holding device" onto my reusable mug. Before, I'd accept any brew handed to me; now, my Starbucks order takes a good 45 seconds to say. I can see the barista's soul start to deaden inside—the eyes are the window to the soul, as they say. With each "half-caf, no whip, extra-dry-but-not-too-dry" phrase I utter, I can see the light behind their orbitals dim, as despair (or is it disgust? Who can tell?) sweeps across their faces.
I can see how, to an outsider, it may seem pretentious or something, but I don't mean it that way. I just know what I like, and as a notecard-carrying member of the Orange Sleeve Society, I can't let my sleeved sisters and brothers down by drinking a subpar brew. I don't want to get kicked out before I even know what membership entails, because I'm sure it's got to be amaze.
Oh no, I totes just said amaze. Wait—totes?! TOTES?! Who am I? What's happening to me?!
I think I need an intervention?
Help?
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