Uneasy Moments in Dunkin’ Donuts

Not an iced coffee, but an example of how much both my cat and I run on Dunkin'. And why it's weird to go in there as a Bills fan.

Sunday morning, I woke up earlier than usual, and decided to take advantage of this extra time and do laundry. I got ready, threw on my Buffalo Bills sweatshirt, Bills earrings and jeans, and beat the crowd to my local Allston laundromat by all of five minutes. I snapped up my three washers, started my laundry, and headed over to the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. This is the DD’s where one of the employee’s routinely refers to me as “Ms. Cinna-mina-mon”, after the morning I was more dead to the world than usual and couldn’t say cinnamon to save my life. (Because I live on a small cinnamon iced coffee with cream and sugar. If this is not drank in the morning, than my day will be largely unsuccessful.)

Being 8am on a Sunday morning in Allston, Massachusetts (aka college party central of America), my usual swamped Dunkin’ Donuts was dead. One person in front of me getting a Coolata, one person at the doggie window getting something equally as complicated, so my Bills clad self waiting patiently in line, ready to order my iced cinnamon when it was my turn.

Someone else entered the Dunkin’ Donuts and got in line next to me. He cleared his throat and then stifled a laugh. I snuck a glance. This young man was wearing a new but fashionably antique-y looking Pat-the-Patriot-sporting New England Patriots sweatshirt.

I snapped my head back just as it was my turn to order.

“May I please have a small iced cinnamon coffee with cream and sugar?” The worker went on her way to prepare my coffee, and I moved down to the cash register.

The worker that had been helping the customer at the doggie window came back to the main cash register, turned to Pat-the-Patriot, and asked, “How can I help you?” He ordered a medium coffee of some sort, but while he was saying his order, she looked at me. Then looked back at him. Then looked at me again. Then Pat-the-Patriot looked at me. Feeling stared at, I looked at them.

The Dunkin’ Donuts worker, a young girl who is friendly with everyone that has ever walked into that store, pouted in my direction. “I’m so sorry,” she said, hurrying off to get Pat-the-Patriot’s coffee.

I looked down at my Bills sweatshirt. “Oh,” I said. “That.”

Pat-the-Patriot nodded.

I thought about a smart comeback, but it was 8am on a Sunday and I had not yet had coffee. I couldn’t think of anything quick enough. Luckily, my coffee was ready, I paid my worker – who didn’t give me two glances, because she sees me a good four times a week, and grabbed a straw and was on my way.

Being a fan of a team other than the home team – especially when said team is more unlucky than Brian Urlacher trying to play an entire season – is a never-ending study in sociology. As long as I choose to wear Bills wear outside my own home, I’ll experience these uneasy interactions.

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Quotes actually said to me this week from friends, colleagues and family who know I’m a Bills fan:

“After that fumble, I immediately thought of you and laughed.” – a colleague

“Hi, how are you? Are you…okay?” – my future mother-in-law

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.” – a comment on my Facebook wall

“Being a Bills fan must be like getting up in the middle of February, looking out the window to find a freak snowstorm, knowing you still have to go to work, and not having your car start. Every single day.” – a local news anchor on Tuesday morning.