Tea
So, dear reader, I have a problem. I like to buy tea. Not drink tea, mind, just buy it. And this little oddity is fine when you live alone. You rarely have to even acknowledge it. A friend may come to visit and you can pull out All The Teas, and they can feel a little bit special as they get to select from The Range. And that’s the end of it.
But when you live with someone else, eventually they Notice. And then, once they’ve noticed, they start to take notes. And then, after a while, They Ask Questions. Questions like, “how on earth can you need MORE tea?” and “don’t you already have that kind?” and finally … “BUT YOU DON’T EVEN DRINK TEA!!!” this one is more a loud statement than a question and is usually made as said person is juggling packets and packets of tea as they tumble out of the pantry whilst he tries to put away your new acquisition.
Because. You see, dear reader, I would *like* to be the kind of person who drinks tea. There. I said it. That other version of me? The one who cooks delicious gourmet soufflés in her ramekins and always offers to bring a dish to dinner and never ever has a dirty cup waiting in the sink and always remembers her third cousin twice removed’s wedding anniversary and doesn’t need prompting for the 63rd item on her to do list to get done? She drinks tea. And has a perfect complexion and figure. And you like her more than me.
And it might be because she drinks tea.
Or it might be because she calmly sits on her window seat on a Sunday afternoon sipping said tea out of a fine bone china tea cup whilst thumbing through Vogue and glancing out to her perfectly manicured garden.
Sigh.
One of my 2013 New Year’s Resolutions is going to revolve around this issue. I think I should either rediscover my love for *drinking* tea, find a perfect way to store the 30 different boxes of tea I own or admit once and for all that I don’t actually drink tea, gift what I have and move on with my life. There. There it is, my first NYR for 2013.
Mirrored from Champagne and Socks.