In my opinion, humanity can be divided into 2 parts: those who drink Juice Press and those who don’t. The former of course being the woman who has a private yoga instruction in her Soho loft every morning after the nanny takes the newborn offspring to the park to learn Mandarin. And the latter being anyone I have an ounce of desire to know.
And then something cursed happened. I was given a Juice Press gift card from one of my male coworkers during a Secret Santa exchange. It was a seemingly harmless gift – the kind of gift that an overworked, single, 20-something-year-old male gives after recuperating from shell shock having been burdened with picking out a $25 Christmas surprise for a chick he barely knows in his office. He wasn’t even present for the gift exchange, so when a girl in my department handed me the little plastic card, she explained to me Joaquin’s* nervous debate over whether giving me a yoga mat would imply I need to elongate my limbs and drop a few – or if gifting body lotion insinuated some perverse fantasy involving him rubbing it on me. And so he settled on juice. Because what lady do you know DOESN’T love to starve herself silly on liquid? I mean, chicks man, amirite? For the record, a Clay Aiken’s Greatest Hits compact disk box set would have been a blessing compared to the havoc that damn gift card released on my life.
I innocently stepped foot in Juice Press for the first time in early January and pretended to look for my usual kale mixture of choice among the intimidating selection of options stocked in the fridge. I was tempted to rattle off a list of maladies to the chick at the counter to ensure I chose wisely – I have super dry elbows, my dog doesn’t listen to me, and I really like rom coms…which of these $17 bottles of liquid vegetables will make me a princess?
Instead I opted for something a little more my speed – a smoothie mainly comprised of cold press coffee. As I’m already an over-caffeinated wreck, I briefly wondered if I was abusing the point of the health store, but took a little pride that I wasn’t the stick thin dude in front of me spending $170 on various snot-green concoctions that he’d most likely live off for 2 weeks. I also took pride that I wasn’t dating him, although he and I exchanged glances as he was leaving. In this moment a wave of mutual understanding washed over us: he was much cooler than I in that environmentally-aware, wood-carving, clean-colon way that my preservative-riddled, Styrofoam cup using self could never understand. Regardless, I spent the next hour and a half sipping on my smoothie – very much aware that every gulp cost me roughly $1.17; making me hell bent on expanding the elapsed-time-to-sip ratio in order to get my money’s worth.
Since then my gift card has run out of money, and I’m still sneaking off to Juice Press more times than I’d care to share. I sit at my desk wondering why the plastic cup containing my Yoga Karma Relax Detox Rejuvenating Vital Raw Coconut Life Force Smoothie isn’t plated in solid gold for what I shelled out for it. I look at my bank account and wonder if I have enough to pay my rent this month. I close my eyes and see Skinny Green Juice Cleanse Man glaring at me. And yet, I can’t stop. The whisper of a woman behind the counter this morning even said “hello” to me – a nicety she usually reserves only for those carrying yoga mats in the store.
But you know what? As I washed down the organic drink with a few dozen french fries and a mayonnaise soaked turkey burger this afternoon, I swear I heard my colon whisper, “you’re a princess”.
*Name has been changed to protect the poor dude’s privacy, while maintaining historical accuracy surrounding the lofty and oft-times unpronounceable names of people in my work environment. For no apparent reason I’ve yet to ascertain. And still here I am – a sore thumb Caitlin in a sea of Guinevere’s.