Coffee and Love Letters

When I was younger, I tried not to drink coffee very often because I didn't want to be addicted to it. This was hard because I love coffee for its taste, not so much for the jittery effects of caffeine. So coffee kind of became a special treat for me because I didn't want my life to be dependent on it. I wanted a no-regret life experience--no addictions for me! Also because I've seen my mom try to quit coffee, and it went something like this:

Mom: I haven't had coffee for two days!
Family: Yay! Good job!
[5 minutes later]
Mom: I can't get this jar open [freaks out] Why does this happen to me?! I am so upset!! RAWRRRRRRRRRRR I AM GRUMPY RAWRRR
Family [traumatized]: Please just drink the coffee!!

Lately though, coffee has become a necessary part of my functioning. The publishing project takes up so much time and energy, I'm pretty sure I would get nothing done if I didn't have my morning cup of Joe. There was a bit of a snag last week with our class's Coffee Club where I think something got confused and so we had no coffee for most of the week. I literally almost started a riot. It was that bad. I've finally given up pretending that I didn't need coffee, and am beginning to accept my pseudo-addiction. But so much for no life regrets, right?

I've been thinking about regret a lot in the last couple of weeks. Old relationships are especially good at spawning regrets, the kind that persist even after any romantic feelings have long since evaporated. I regret things that I said, things that I did. But I'm particularly bothered by the things that I wrote.

I don't know if it's a combination of having Asian parents who never showed affection or because of an affinity for words, but expressing myself with writing has always been the most natural outlet of affection for me. I poured my feelings and hopes and fears into late-night emails and heavy writing paper spritzed with perfume. I wrote pages and pages and pages of love and anxiety and desire, pages that I tucked into pockets or backpacks as the guys I loved were heading out the door, or perhaps were walking away permanently. They were letters that I think back on now with some regret, and a little bewilderment, like "Man, I really cared about that guy, didn't I? I don't even know why anymore." I wrote things that kind of make the vain part of me go "Oh man, if I were ever a famous writer, he could totally use those letters against me."

I re-read an old letter from an ex-boyfriend the other day, and was kind of taken aback by how cold it was. At first I thought, "Wow, that's kind of smart, to not say anything that could be incriminating or embarassing a couple years down the line." His wording was careful, almost calculated, from the perspective of someone who was looking at our relationship from some point in the future where we were no longer together. It was certainly not ever anything that he might think back on and cringe at. "I'll always remember you," I think, was the most personal thing that he wrote. Not "I'll always love you," not even "I care about you so much." I will always remember you. I wrote that for dozens of people in high school yearbooks. It's a phrase that's about as intimate as handing someone a sandwich that you didn't even make yourself--solid, but impersonal.

But then I got mad. Why didn't he write anything more personal? Why wasn't I worth an "I'll always love you," or even something as cheesy as "The times we had together were the best that I've ever known"? I had opened myself up to him. Why couldn't he give just a little of himself in return? It was then that I realized something: I don't think he ever cared enough to regret losing me. I don't know if it was because he was scared, or just unable to. He was not willing to say anything personal that might be damning to him in the future. Or maybe he just never liked me all that much. But at that moment, I lost a lot of respect for him. What kind of person takes and takes another person's vulnerabilities without giving any in return? To me, that's a coward's move. The move of a little boy who is not enough of a man to care deeply enough to have regret. So as awkward or painful or even truly awful as the memories of my love letters are, I'm kind of proud that I've cared and loved as much as I did.

So here I am, thoroughly enjoying a coffee spiked with ice cream (I donated my creamer to the Coffee Club last week and forgot to buy a new one) and eating a leftover ghost cookie that Anna made last week for Treat Team. Maybe a life without regrets isn't how it's supposed to be. Maybe it's okay to indulge in a little bit of vice. And maybe it's better to be able to say that you really cared about something or someone once upon the time than to coast through life without ever getting attached to anything at all. I have regrets because I've let people touch my life. And I think that's just fine.