Seasonal Anti-Depressant Beverage

So around 5PM this evening I was sitting in my hooded sweatshirt that's three sizes too big for me on our old couch with the ripped slipcover in my small two-bedroom on the edge of the edge of the hood feeling extremely frumpy and pathetically sorry for myself for no good reason. It was dark and cold and last night, it snowed, much to the delight of all of the native Wisconsinites who, in Expat's words, have been quite convinced that Global Warming is happening right here, right now, to them—as if greenhouse gases have some inexplicable vendetta against cheese and beer and bratwursts. I, on the other hand, had hitherto been quite convinced that I had done something Extremely, Cosmically Right and that the universe was rewarding me with only Mildly Annoying Rain and lows in the 40s. But no more. Here I was, cold, lonely, a little bored, and thoroughly uninspired to do any of the chores I had laid out for myself. Somehow, three loads of laundry, a Very Necessary trip to the grocery store, and cat boxes that don't change themselves aren't terribly inspiring at 5PM on a dark, cold, lonely, boring, snowy winter evening.

“What's wrong with me?” I wailed to Wilbur, who sat at my feet complaining about the weather.

He didn't know. He told me I should get up and turn the bathroom sink on for him to drink out of (but not too much, just a trickle, thank you), and that I should then do the laundry and take him with me to the basement.

“Well, I'll give you the water, but the laundry is a one woman job this week, buddy.” I sighed. I got up off my frumpy rump, and on my way to cater to the whims of my spoiled cat, I had an Epiphany: I. Needed. Coffee.

It had been at least four days since I'd had any caffeine. You'd think that the weird headaches and strong urges to nap constantly would have been a clue, but to a self-professed non-coffee drinker, they were simply annoying, unexplainable anomalies. I missed Expat, I told myself. And it was dark. That was all. I was just in a Funk.

Still, even I couldn't deny the small tremble of excitement at the bottom of my stomach the instant that I remembered coffee. It was like the week before Christmas or your birthday—the joyous anticipation of a Much-Loved Event. I was going to Have Coffee. I was not only going to Have Coffee, but I was going to arrange my chores around the Having of Coffee. There was just one problem: I didn't actually want coffee.

See, I don't like regular, make-it-in-your-coffee-pot-at-home, drip filtered coffee. I like Foofy Coffee. Foofy, flavored, sugary, coffee shop coffee. I like mochas and lattes and frozen frappuccinos. I like drinks that cost as much if not more than your average beer. With whipped cream on top. In a little cup with a cardboard sleeve and a sippy top so I won't spill it.

Clearly, I wasn't going to find this in my kitchen. Clearly, I was going out.

Lucky for me the local Midwestern chain coffee shop was on the way to the grocery store, so I could Have Coffee and complete the Very Necessary grocery shop.

Before Wilbur could bat an eye, I had ditched the oversized hoodie in favor of a far more slimming hoodless model, donned my ski-bunny earwarmer band and my best pair of pigtail holders, and stepped out into the cold, snowy night. I was cute. I was warm. I was going to Have Coffee.

The coffee shop had a big sign advertising its new sugar-free flavors. Now, I'm not normally one to go for anything artificially sweetened, but it was already 6PM and I figured that I didn't need to get jacked up on caffeine and sugar, so I decided to give it a go. One sugar-free chocolate-raspberry latte (2%, no whip) later, and I was a happy camper. Actually, I was a happy shopper. I was warm, I had a latte, and I even got one of the shopping carts with a cup holder so I could shop and sip. I was so happy, in fact, that the super market seemed to be just a little brighter, just a little shinier. As if to corroborate this, as I rounded aisle three I came face to car-shaped kid-cart with a five-year-old singing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” at the top of his lungs. My Very Necessary shop flew by. I bought Pink Lady apples. I bought spinach. I bought a Rotisserie Chicken.

The writers at Real Simple magazine have been telling me to buy a Rotisserie Chicken for years. “It's already cooked for you,” they say. “It's rotisserie, so it's not too fatty,” they say. “You can do a lot with it.” And there in the deli section of my local supermarket, I decided: maybe they're right. I mean, at $5 for a 3lb, already seasoned, already Rotisseried Chicken, how wrong could they really possibly be? Sure, I could go buy my own fresh whole three pound chicken and roast it myself at home and have the satisfaction of knowing that I had seasoned it and tended it and roasted it myself . . . or I could just buy one for the same price and not have to season it, tend it, or roast it myself. As I checked out, I thought “That's my Rotisserie Chicken passing over the scanner.”

I sipped my sugar-free chocolate-raspberry latte and swiped my bonus card. I was pleased. I was happy. I was a new woman.

And maybe that's it. Maybe that's just what I need this winter. Maybe what I need to get past the dark and the cold and the boring and the Missing of Expat is really just a Foofy Coffee and a Rotisserie Chicken. There are certainly more expensive ways to self-medicate. Maybe I'll write a book about it and make millions: Coffee and Chicken: A Lonely Girl's Guide to Getting through A Midwestern Winter.

Remember, folks, you heard it first at the Nation.