graham cracker latte

and other sweet moments

I ordered a graham cracker latte this morning. I normally go for oat milk, but my sister recently opened my eyes to the beauty of half-oat, half-almond milk. It balances the flavor; it’s not overly creamy—the perfect base for any espresso beverage. Standing by the pick-up section, I eye the man who ordered before me, watching him devour the two salted chocolate chip cookies he purchased. It's not yet 9 a.m. Admirable behavior.

The barista chuckles as he calls out my order, “Graham cracker latte—alm-oat.” I had my headphones in, missing his pun completely. He looks at me and laughs, and I take out a headphone. “Alm-oat. Get it?” He repeats. I giggle, taking my drink from his hand. “Good one!” I say, walking out the door of the coffee shop with a smile on my face.

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Loudie is my favorite NYC hack for free concert tickets. If you make an account, you’re required to have a few followers before you can start winning tickets. Follow me (amydointhings) and I promise to follow back.

This past weekend, I won free tickets to see Built To Spill at Webster Hall. They were celebrating the 30th anniversary of their second album, There’s Nothing Wrong With Love. Sadly, my favorite Built To Spill song, “Goin’ Against Your Mind,” isn’t from that album, so I didn't hear it that night. I’ve had it on repeat since; please enjoy it in my honor:

Since I didn’t pay for concert tickets, I find myself in line for merch. By merch, I mean two stickers for $5—perfect for pasting into my journal to remember the evening. My friend Austin stands loyally by my side, asking me which T-shirt I like best, and I can’t help but notice the man in front of me. His head practically touches the ceiling; he must be 6’7”. Somehow, that isn’t even what stands out about him most.

It smells like he has an air freshener (or three) in his pocket. Cologne, maybe? But in New York, where pleasant scents are rare, this shocks me. The intensity is almost nauseating, but still, I find myself breathing deeply, snickering at the unlikelihood of an “enjoyable” smell at a crowded indie rock concert.

The man, towering and fragrant, went on to purchase not one, not two, but three Built To Spill T-shirts. A bit excessive, I think, and so is the way he flirts with the lone woman running the merch stand. It seems like overkill, but he swipes his card for $120 without hesitation. As he walks away, T-shirts in hand, I catch one last whiff of his air fresheners, the scent still lingering in my nose as I approach the table to purchase my stickers.

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One night this week, after a long and, honestly, quite stomach-turning conversation with someone I love, I walked back to my apartment in tears. I did the only thing I could think to do: pick up the phone and call my Mom.

I’m blubbering to her, word-vomiting, spewing all the thoughts in my head, walking down the street, a mess of salty tears and snot—likely a concerning sight to passersby. I walk right by a girl with a huge backpack on, and as I do, she asks, “Do you need a hug?” In shock, I blubber/laugh back to her, “I’m okay, I’m on the phone with my mom, thank you though.” She doesn’t move. "Please can I give you a hug?” She asks. And then there she is, arms around me, her backpack in my face, my tears dripping onto her hair. It doesn’t last long, she lets go quickly. “I hope tomorrow is better." She says as she scurries off.

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The next night, I am sitting in the nosebleeds of Forest Hills, my favorite concert venue in New York. The War On Drugs just finished their set.

Next to me is my friend Maddie. I haven’t seen her since the start of the summer, despite us texting each other constantly in hopes of making plans. She is glowing: her hair in a slicked-back bun, a new tattoo on her bicep, and a glistening ring on her finger. My friend Aidan, her boyfriend of seven years, is now her fiancé. We discuss her upcoming wedding. She starts with, “You’re invited, of course,” which clears up any confusion that may have come if she didn’t indeed confirm that I’m on the guest list. We have a lot to catch up on, both of our summers having slipped by in a blink.

As we chat, the sun is setting, and birds slice through our line of vision, so close it feels like they could graze our hands. We’re sitting high up, almost level with the sky, and my stomach twists into familiar knots. It’s an uncomfortable, common sensation dating back to the nights I shared a room with my sister, both of us under the age of eight. When the sun goes down, my nerves rise, and a strange unease settles over me. Everything feels darker, not just outside, but inside too.

It doesn’t happen every night, but when it does, it’s a sure sign that I need to give myself some extra care. I’ve come to recognize it as a clear indication that my stress levels are running high, a warning bell that it might be time to distract my mind, or maybe just go to bed early. As I take a deep breath, Maddie picks up on it. People often do, though their reactions vary. Friends who’ve known anxiety, as I have, tend to nod in silent agreement when they hear that breath and say, “I feel that.” Others who may not share the same struggle lean in with concern, asking, “You okay?”

It’s a funny dichotomy—the understanding between two people whose nervous systems are always just a little elevated, and the instinctive worry from those who don’t live with that undercurrent of tension.

Up next is The National. This is my third time seeing them, and I’m relieved to hear that Maddie has seen them before as well. As the band takes the stage, I start to worry about my longevity for the evening. The knots in my stomach turn to nausea, and my usual pre-concert excitement feels more like dread. The National begins, great as always, and it feels like a funny joke that I’m at a concert listening to some of the most melancholy music of all time as I battle nerves like I haven’t in a while. The world works in mysterious ways and all that…

I turn to Maddie and let her in on my thoughts, “We should leave a bit early to beat the crowds.” Keep in mind that we’re only five songs in. Her response is perfect: “You let me know when you want to leave. I’m ready whenever.” I glance at her, trying to figure out if she’s just saying that to appease me. I think she’s being genuine, but I’m not entirely sure. “I’m serious,” she adds, clearing it up.

Two songs later, tears prick at my eyes, and I turn to her without saying a word. “Let’s go,” she says, standing up. “Yeah?” I ask, my voice shaking. “Let’s go!” And before I know it, we’re clomping down the stairs, making our way out of the stadium.

We exit the venue and I thank her for her willingness to leave. It’s a bit of a trek from our Brooklyn apartments to Forest Hills, and we didn’t even make it an hour into The National’s set. I haven’t voiced any of my deeper unease, but there’s no doubt she can sense I’m not myself, and her readiness to go really touches me. “That’s actually one of my best traits,” she remarks. “I am always, always down to leave. Sometimes you just need to leave the place you’re at. And I’m always the girl for the job.”

As Matt Berninger of The National’s voice fades into the background, Maddie starts telling me about her recent ClassPass venture to a “twerking workout class” and a wave of comfort washes over me. I’m struck with gratitude for my friend who walks beside me and who is always, always down to leave.