It was not an unusual sight—a teenage girl hustling to the nearest coffee shop on a snowy afternoon for a quick fix and a quiet place to study. It was no matter that I didn’t like coffee; I went there for the atmosphere and the implausibly cushiony seats by the windows. When I arrived, I quickly shuffled my feet to remove the rapidly melting snow from my boots. Soggy socks would’ve certainly spoiled my study session. Once the offending flakes were gone, mercifully leaving my shoes only slightly dewy, I looked up and shook my head.

It was one of those headaches that only defiled regular coffee shop-goers. The weekend rush. Apparently, while my mind was distracted by my snowy shoes, my ears failed to recognize the cacophony of noises that assaulted them. Unfortunately, that was no longer the case. Mothers coaxed screaming babies into booths while, in an incredible feat of multitasking, they texted. Businessmen, who must’ve failed to remember it was a Saturday, talked on their cell phones in important-sounding voices. Couples, bundled up against the cold and distracted by their phones, sat together on cozy little dates. Grandparents sat down with newspapers and what appeared to be scones. Teenage girls clustered around tables taking artsy photos for their Instagram feeds. And the line. Oh my lord, the line. The line wrapped all the way around my little coffee shop almost three times! It was as if, in an effort to be cutesy, every family in my town bundled up and decided my coffee shop was the place to be. Had they all forgotten that Keurigs exist? And, of course, all of my prized window seats were taken.

Because I was in this coffee shop so often, I should’ve been used to the weekend chaos. But, as I looked farther up in the line I caught the eye of another regular. This one looked, as many hipsters do, like a boy startlingly set into a man’s body. His shoulders slumped even further as he gave me a look of sympathetic annoyance. Clearly, he wasn’t used to the chaos either.

As a regular at a coffee shop that wasn’t part of a chain, I supposed I should’ve been used to the way hipsters dress. As it was, I was not. There were several of them standing in line, their Airpods in, casually scrolling through VSCO. Their flannels remained unbuttoned, despite the twenty-five-below windchill, and their pants were far too tight to allow for circulation. It was as if they were dressed warmly for winter when they suddenly decided, “To hell with it! I wanna look like I pulled these clothes out of a bag at a garage sale,” before proceeding to cut deep Vs in otherwise perfectly good white shirts and to pull on the same beanie that was cool in seventh grade, keeping it so far off of their heads that it could have nothing to do with body heat.

    My gaze quickly drifted from the hipsters down to their phones. What could possibly be so interesting? It wasn’t as if Jared Leto, arguably the most hipster of all hipsters, would magically pull himself out of their screens. And is it trendy to always travel alone? These trendsetters were standing several feet from each other, not speaking. Though, I was sure they would’ve had lots in common, like the edgy books they read or the indie rock bands they listened to on their “vintage” record players while drinking kombucha on a casual Tuesday night.

Standing next to the hipster in the red beanie—don’t be confused by the hipsters in the brown or blue beanies as this hat color made him most assuredly unique—stood a woman nearing her thirties. Her french-manicured nails tapped furiously at her phone screen as the baby in the stroller next to her wailed. The baby, presumably hers, although I suppose it could’ve been a loaner, had dropped his pacifier and was doing everything in his power to make his plight known. Tiny red arms and legs flailed as his pudgy, pink face scrunched up with terrible howls. Yet, the mother was completely absorbed in her cell phone, unfazed by the baby’s efforts. Perhaps if the baby had tried DMing his mother before resorting to the screaming tactic, he would’ve received his pacifier in a timely manner. As it was, the baby’s call was eventually answered by a man of about forty, who looked as if he had just come from a hike in the woods. Now, his flannel was completely buttoned. He quickly scooped up the pacifier and set it on the baby’s tray.   

As the baby’s endeavor came to a victorious end, the old woman in front of me turned around; “Typical. You know back in my day we didn’t have these gadgets and gizmos distracting us from the truly important things in life. Give it a few years and let me tell you, not a single person is going to know how to have a face-to-face conversation.”   

I didn’t know how to respond to that one. Not that I hadn’t heard it before, and it wasn’t like I completely disagreed with her, but as a member of the generation she was criticizing, I felt it necessary to oppose her viewpoint.   

I opened my mouth to say something witty and insightful, but before I could speak a grandfather caught my eye. He was sitting with his grandson, eyes downcast as he picked at a blueberry pecan scone--something about old people and their pecans, I guess. His grandson, a boy of about thirteen, sat with a giant chocolate muffin and an iPad. The boy was so absorbed in the game he was playing that it seemed he didn’t even notice his lonely grandpa sitting there. At another table a couple sat with their drinks, both respectively staring at their phones. It was like this date could have taken place in two separate buildings and had the same results. I saw a prepubescent boy at the counter, nervously ordering his drink. It seemed to take all of his courage just to form the words he wanted to say. I recalled all of the times my friends turned to me panicked about calling to make something as simple as dinner reservations. I thought of the hundreds of snapchats I got everyday from people I barely talked to in real life. I recollected all of the times my brother sat looking at Reddit during family birthday celebrations or get-togethers. I remembered my little sister spending hours in her room watching YouTube videos. It seemed as though technology was on a crusade to interject itself in any real human interaction. Everywhere I looked someone was entranced by some sort of device. Though her point may have been exaggerated, the old lady was not wrong.

    “I hear ya,” I sighed, dejectedly, as I slowly slipped my phone back into my pocket.