I’m a creature of habit. It’s a mixed blessing — possibly a little bit of a spectrum thing, or maybe run of the mill OCD. I like my routines.
I’d hoped to leverage that tendency to finally get back into shape. But I knew I needed motivation. So after I hit the gym, I’d stop by this little Indy coffee shop call Cuppa Joes, and I give myself a little treat: a coffee (black, iced or hot depending on weather) and some sort of baked thing that definitely wasn’t countering my efforts at all. (Ahem)
I’d been at it for a few months now, to the point where it felt weird if something came up and I missed my gym time, or if something disrupted the treat I’d conditioned myself to expect after. I was making decent, if slow, progress at the gym; I’d dropped nearly 15 pounds and was firming up the bits that jiggled. But I’d felt like I’d hit a plateau; I needed something to shake things up, but was resistant to major changes in my routine.
At 37, I was long past the party boy stage, and not quite at the Settled Dad phase, of my life. I had a boring white collar job for my county government, and I went to the gym three times a week to stave off the middle-aged spread. That was pretty much it — no social life really.
But things changed when I showed up one Saturday and there was a new barista.
“Hey, bra, what can I get ya?” The source of that question was apparently Stevie, a laid-back, 20-something with dimples and a friendly smile and bright blue eyes beneath his dark brown artfully messy hair. He had a bit of scruff going, but whatever DNA produced him seemed to have been a rousing success. Killer cheekbones, lanky but fit body, good teeth — it was shocking how many folks did not understand that bad teeth were a turn off.
“Black coffee, large, no sweeteners,” i mumbled, “and one of those cranberry scones.”
“You got it boss! Warm up the pastry?”
“Yes please,” i said.
“I just started a fresh pot, so have a seat and i will let you know when it’s ready. Name?”
“Caleb,” I said.
I watched him work for a few minutes. Stevie had good looks and an easy friendly manner, and he was competent. After he dealt with the other handful of customers, he poured my coffee from the new pot and grabbed the pastry with some tongs and put it on a plate. He looked around and spotted me, gestured to stay put, and emerged from behind the counter with my order. His smile was infectious.
But that wasn’t everything.
The boy had a goddamned huge bulge, and the black uniform pants did nothing to hide it.
I stared stupidly at it as he approached. I was at one of the low comfy seats rather than a table, so as he walked toward me, the thing was at eye level.
“Caleb, right?” He asked. I nodded stupidly, still staring at his junk like some kind of pervert. I couldn’t help it.
“Great! Yell if you need something,” he said through a million-watt smile, as he set my items down on the low table.
As he walked back to the counter, I noted with some dismay that his ass was pretty darned nice, too.
I was doomed.
I’d hoped to leverage that tendency to finally get back into shape. But I knew I needed motivation. So after I hit the gym, I’d stop by this little Indy coffee shop call Cuppa Joes, and I give myself a little treat: a coffee (black, iced or hot depending on weather) and some sort of baked thing that definitely wasn’t countering my efforts at all. (Ahem)
I’d been at it for a few months now, to the point where it felt weird if something came up and I missed my gym time, or if something disrupted the treat I’d conditioned myself to expect after. I was making decent, if slow, progress at the gym; I’d dropped nearly 15 pounds and was firming up the bits that jiggled. But I’d felt like I’d hit a plateau; I needed something to shake things up, but was resistant to major changes in my routine.
At 37, I was long past the party boy stage, and not quite at the Settled Dad phase, of my life. I had a boring white collar job for my county government, and I went to the gym three times a week to stave off the middle-aged spread. That was pretty much it — no social life really.
But things changed when I showed up one Saturday and there was a new barista.
“Hey, bra, what can I get ya?” The source of that question was apparently Stevie, a laid-back, 20-something with dimples and a friendly smile and bright blue eyes beneath his dark brown artfully messy hair. He had a bit of scruff going, but whatever DNA produced him seemed to have been a rousing success. Killer cheekbones, lanky but fit body, good teeth — it was shocking how many folks did not understand that bad teeth were a turn off.
“Black coffee, large, no sweeteners,” i mumbled, “and one of those cranberry scones.”
“You got it boss! Warm up the pastry?”
“Yes please,” i said.
“I just started a fresh pot, so have a seat and i will let you know when it’s ready. Name?”
“Caleb,” I said.
I watched him work for a few minutes. Stevie had good looks and an easy friendly manner, and he was competent. After he dealt with the other handful of customers, he poured my coffee from the new pot and grabbed the pastry with some tongs and put it on a plate. He looked around and spotted me, gestured to stay put, and emerged from behind the counter with my order. His smile was infectious.
But that wasn’t everything.
The boy had a goddamned huge bulge, and the black uniform pants did nothing to hide it.
I stared stupidly at it as he approached. I was at one of the low comfy seats rather than a table, so as he walked toward me, the thing was at eye level.
“Caleb, right?” He asked. I nodded stupidly, still staring at his junk like some kind of pervert. I couldn’t help it.
“Great! Yell if you need something,” he said through a million-watt smile, as he set my items down on the low table.
As he walked back to the counter, I noted with some dismay that his ass was pretty darned nice, too.
I was doomed.
