Never Walked In High Heels

              I realize that when most people my age claim to be boycotting Starbucks, its normally for some social justice reason. People don’t like it because its run by a Zionist, or because they’re opposed to some trace ingredient, or its too hot, or the beans come from the wrong place, or its too overpriced, or its too popular so Caribou Coffee is a much better option. Fair enough, I suppose. And truly whenever I go into one, I get very nervous as well. 

              Someone once tried to heal me at a Starbucks. 

              Let me explain. People try to heal me all the time, I would say at least once every three months. It used to be much more frequent than that but then my family moved to Las Vegas and I moved to London, two places where, apparently, miracles never happen because people don’t do it as often. Perhaps those of us from these two towns are all just godless commies who don’t deserve miracles. Or maybe now that I’m older I seem like I’m beyond all hope so why bother asking. Either way, it used to happen once a month so its become much less common. Of this I am grateful. 

              On this particular occasion I was with my mother at Starbucks, eating a chocolate covered biscotti. The only thing going faster than my fourteen year old  brain was my fourteen year old mouth. A single braid going down my back as I prattle on relentlessly about all things important to being fourteen. And then there was my mother who, having already learned the most important skill of raising a teenage girl, drowned me out by reading a magazine.  

              And then I stopped talking. 

              Upon realizing this, my mother jerked her head up to see a young woman who had firmly taken both of my hands, bowed her head, and had started praying- IN TONGUES! There was no swaying her. Like someone left over from an ancient crusade, she was going to pray for my recovery damnit! Three minutes of the holy ritual passed, then four, then five. My chocolate biscotti was melting into my hands. 

              What is there to do in such a situation? How do you hope to maintain a sliver of political correctness when someone is speaking in tongues and thereby ruining your after school snack. All attempts of me pulling my hand away were failing- she just held on tighter. Besides, as someone who believes in God herself I have to ask, what could the woman be asking God for that could possibly take six minutes? Clearly, He’s very busy and I am too so I try to keep my correspondences brief.  This was now teetering on unedited which is never a good thing. Of course perhaps she was going for something which required six minutes of specification. I couldn’t tell because she was speaking in tongues! In fact, for all I know she could’ve been sending up Satan and his seven best friends, asking them to smite me from existence. I just try to assume the best of people. 

                At the eight minute mark the chocolate of my biscotti was molded to my hands, and she looked up from her prayers, tears in her eyes, and said to my, very stunned, mother: “She’ll be alright now.” 

              I was fine before! I put the biscotti down never to touch that particular after school snack again. And, I must say, if I’m ordering my morning grande mocha I am always on the lookout for possible carriers who may spread a viral prayer vigil throughout the coffee shop, thereby making Starbucks more controversial than it already is. 

              The problem with boycotting Starbucks is you pretty much kill your chances for a first date in suburban America. In high school the ‘good boys’ would inevitably want to take us to Barnes & Noble followed by coffee as a primer. (Yes, I know I had a very exciting love life back then.) So you can imagine the reaction I recieved when I said not only did I not want to go to Starbucks, but I didn’t want to go because I was afraid that cult leaders would try to heal me. 

              Yes, I go to Starbucks now. They are pretty ubiquitous here in London and they usually  have accessible toilets (which is a true Starbucks Miracle). Like all boycotts that are started in young adult life, they eventually end. As we grow up we take jobs we hate, buy things we swear we would never buy, shop at stores we used to have a vendetta against. Our idealism turns to practicality once we realize there’s a little corner of the world we have to hold up. Which, I think, is the greatest ideal of all. 

              But I still won’t order a chocolate covered biscotti.