I’ve developed a bit of a morning ritual since the beginning of summer in which I make a visit to the coffee shop across the street from my office and order a “regular coffee.” (The size of the drink is not important as it has no influence on the type of coffee poured.) At no point during the past two months has this order ever presented any problems. But today was a different brew.

After placing my order with a barista who I can’t say for sure I’ve encountered before, I was shocked when she asked, nay, demanded I tell her whether or not I preferred “Dark Roast” as opposed to “Regular Roast.”

I froze, like an iced macchiato.

“What does that mean?” I thought. I mean, I know the difference between “Dark” and “Regular” roasts (one is clearly darker than the other), but this has never been an issue before. Past baristas have taken my order and poured with confidence, not with hesitation.

Why was this order any different?

The only reasonable explanation I can think of is that “Dark Roast” was recently added to their repertoire of caffeinated cocktails, but this isn’t the case. The menu clearly hadn’t been updated in quite some time. Why on planet Earth did this barista inquire as to my preferred roast? “Just give me what I normally order” I thought to myself. Even though I’ve ventured into this coffee shop nearly every day for the past two months, I’m unfortunately not yet a “regular” (forgive the pun), so expecting the barista to know my usual order would be awfully presumptuous of me.

So now what? I was presented with two options. That’s one more option than I wanted to be presented with at such an early hour of the morning. With the understanding that there was a line quickly building up behind me, I did what any other red-blooded American male would have done in the presence of several coffee-tapping women in aprons.With only missing a few beats I collected myself, straightened my back, leaned forward putting my entire weight on my left hand which then rested on the counter, and as casually as I could said, “Dark” as if there wasn’t even a choice.

In retrospect, I know I made the right choice. “Dark” is just edgier than “Regular.” Why be regular when you can be dark? Why be boring when you can be exciting? Why be obvious when you can be mysterious? My edginess was pushed to the max when the barista who assisted with the order by pouring my beverage asked if I’d like her to leave room for cream or sugar.

Cream or sugar? No thanks, Sugar. I just ordered a “Dark” coffee. The only thing I’d want room for in my “Dark” coffee would be whiskey. But since I was heading to work shortly after, coupled with the fact that whiskey wasn’t part of their on-the-house ingredients, I said “Not at all, Darling.” (I didn’t actually call her “Darling.”)

As she set the hot, heavy cup filled with black liquid energy down on the counter, I gave her a wink, and assertively gripped the cup as if no amount of heat could pain me. I escorted my drink to the lids, and with the assistance of gravity, snapped the protective cover on to the top of the cup. As I pushed the door to the coffee shop open and walked into the world outside I thought “Well that wasn’t so bad.”

My “Dark Roast” coffee accompanied me at my desk for some time before it was cool enough to sip consistently. I made it about a third of the way down before realizing that I didn’t really care for the “Dark Roast.”

Apparently I’m just a “regular” guy.