Comfort Culture.
July 7th, 2024
My favorite shows are Normal People and the second season of Fleabag. My favorite movies are 500 Days of Summer and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World and I also really like Clue and I could repeat almost every line from each of them. My favorite book is also Normal People. My favorite artist is Lana Del Rey and my favorite album is Normal Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey and my favorite song is Venice Bitch on the album Norman Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Rey. My favorite shirt is a gray tank top from Target and my second favorite shirt is a navy blue version of the same tank top.
I am the type of person who does not particularly like to branch out. I watch the same shows over and over again and, usually, I don’t finish them because I don’t want to think that they ever actually end. I am the type of person who watches almost exclusively the movies on her top ten list although she calls herself a “movie-buff.” I am the type of person who has had the same most-listened-to songs throughout her entire history of being a Spotify member. I am the type of person who liked one thing at a restaurant one time and now would never ever order anything else, even with a gun to her head. My Jersey Mike's order will always be a California Club with no tomato no cheese extra Italian seasoning, no matter how many times I have tried my mother’s order which is objectively better than mine.
I am the type of person who has just finished her big-girl job at a law firm and now has chosen to go back to her previous under-minimum wage job (that she cried about multiple times because she was so stressed out during it) instead of getting a job that is objectively easier and pays at least triple what she is making. This is not a hypothetical scenario, by the way.
Not trying to bash my job. I lowkey do love it. But I am trying to save money to go to Europe and pay my rent and pay for my general living expenses in this god-forsaken expensive city I voluntarily choose to live in. So maybe I should have been more strategic about my summer job choice.
But I have been working at cafes since high school. Who would I be if I wasn’t… barista?
Probably a richer Izzy Bernstein. But whatevs.
I restarted the coffee shop job that I held the first semester of my sophomore year of college this past Tuesday. My first day was filled with that familiar and comforting nostalgia I was yearning for. Seeing my boss (whom I adore) again and hearing all about her kids. Having the regulars still recognize me and ask where I’ve been, and in return, myself being able to still remember their everyday orders. The taste of the very specific African espresso we use. The sound of the machine grinding the beans for me to measure out, compact, then pull two perfect shots from. The feeling of steaming milk to perfection and being able to do mediocre latte art in each drink. I felt, almost, like I was right at home again. I knew what I was doing without having to be trained. I was known amongst my coworkers and customers immediately without having to introduce myself. I was already good at making everything. I was comfortable. This was comfortable.
“You haven’t lost it at all,” my boss said to me as I was clocking out for the day. “You’re still so quick!” My pride swelled an embarrassing amount. But hey, it's something I’m good at. Is it the most useful skill? Probably not. But it’s my kinda-useless skill.
One thing about living and working in Boston is that a lot of businesses share resources and space. The building that my quaint coffee shop resides in also contains a senior living community. In order to access our storage space and the recycling, we have to go through the senior living entrance and lobby into the basement area. I escaped anything basement-related my first day back (thank god), but on my second day, my boss asked another barista and I to run some boxes down to storage.
As we walked through the front doors of the senior home, in the middle of our conversation, something hit me. Something absolutely paralyzing. The familiar, “Good morning, Sweetheart,” of the lady at the front desk. The familiar yellow-brown lighting. The familiar sound of the same jazz that is always playing. Most of all, the familiar smell of old people and cleaning chemicals*.
It was absolutely suffocating. I was frozen. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to process anything. That is, anything except, Fuck, I have to get out of here. Every bad memory associated with the time I used to work here flooded my head and made my throat constrict and my face flush searing red.
An important tidbit of information for context: The time I used to hold this job, the first semester of my sophomore year of college, is most commonly referred to as one of the absolute worst periods of my entire life. For many reason. (Reasons, of which, will remain unnamed.)
And I kind of seemed to forget that until that smell hit my nose. Mildly musty and fatty and formaldehyde-y. All of a sudden, my comfort job turned into a hellish time-loop nightmare.
Was I really back here? Was I really doing this all over again? Was I really the same exact person? How could I have done this to myself? How could I have, voluntarily, put myself back into that period of my life? Had I really just Groundhogs-Day-ed myself? Palm-Springs-ed myself?
All of these thoughts flashed through my mind in a matter of milliseconds. I had to snap out of it and do my job. I had to snap out of it so that my new coworker didn’t think I was a crazy person losing my sanity inside an old-folks home for no obvious reason.
I pushed the feeling around my head for the rest of my shift. I receive a large drink order: Remember showing up so hungover after a shitty night out and throwing up after my shift? I walk into the back: Remember walking in over two hours late to a shift after balling my eyes out on my bedroom floor in fetal position? I hear the Doordash order notification ring: Remember laying in my bed lifelessly after my shifts unable to speak to anyone let alone function? Et cetera.
It was like all of a sudden, my metric of comfort was shattered. Maybe I should start a new show and maybe I should find a new artist to listen to and maybe I should wear cute-r summer tops and maybe I should branch out my employment more and maybe I should change everything about myself and float out into the ocean to a new continent and become an entirely new person.
Or maybe I should learn to work through the memorable associations that all my so-called “comforts” dredge up. Maybe, I should realize that I am not in that same place in my life, no matter how hard my brain tricks me into thinking so.
Now, this is easier said than done. It’s not like I can control a subconscious reaction to a smell or a sound. But, I can at least try to control the narrative I build around said reaction. I’m not saying that I just magically changed my mindset and now I am mentally well and everything is rainbows and butterflies. (I spend enough time in therapy and laying in my bed pensively to make up for the entire population of Boston’s “emo-time.”) But even thinking about it in the first place is a step in the right direction. To me, just thinking matters.
I think what I realized from the whole situation is that familiarity can also be uncomfortable. It’s something I recognized but have never really been able to put into words or even actualize into a real thought. I guess I just equated familiarity to success. And let's be real: No one at age twenty is wildly successful.
It's not even that new things make me uncomfortable. I honestly really like new things when I do them. It's not an “uncomfort avoidance” situation. It's more a “go with what I know” scenario. Everytime I watch a new movie I usually really enjoy it. Everytime I hear a new song that Spotify recommends to me I usually add it to all my playlists. Everytime I get a new shirt I usually feel like a million bucks while wearing it. Uncomfort in the face of newness is not a fear of validity since there is such limited evidence to support it. Uncomfort in the face of familiarity, empirically, makes more sense.
This is not to say that I will stop rewatching Normal People every time it is raining or I am in that kind of mood (I feel like if you know, you know). I will never let another artist surpass Lana Del Rey on my Spotify Wrapped anytime soon. I am actively wearing said gray Target tank top as I am writing this. All I can say is that that split-second during work made me rethink my stance on my personal comfort culture. And while I can definitely feel myself begin to spiral, I can also feel myself begin to grow. (I hope.)
*The amygdala and hippocampus, the emotional regulation and memory centers of the brain, are located right next to the olfactory center of the brain. Studies at Northwestern University have found that familiar smells can be the most powerful triggers of memories and corresponding emotional responses.