How can anyone be socially anxious in a cafe literally called the 'Feel Good Club', a comprehensive guide:

I’ve woken up late on a Friday, having stayed up til 4am last night reading about ‘Nada’ (Laforet’s novel, rather than the absence of any sort of worthwhile substance). And also, hey, it’s a Friday, the end of a 5 day marathon. Objectively the best day of the week. 

It is the day in which you can justify barely doing any work, both because you’ve been working hard all week, and because it’s the beginning of the weekend. Friday is the calendrical equivalent to an airport, in which all time seems to temporarily pause before you reach the much anticipated destination that is Friday night. 

I have a pole dancing class later, the first one in months and one day after I’ve eventually (and gratefully) received the Covid vaccine. If my slightly achey arm holds up it’ll be a miracle, but I’m excited nonetheless. In the spirit of the first day of the weekend (I just think everyone would be a lot happier if we paid more attention to celebrating the small things as well as the big life events like birthdays, graduations and weddings - although the latter seems more like a sacrifice than a celebration), I decide to toddle into the city centre early-ish (if time is relative) and do some work in a cute cafe I’ve found on Instagram. 

The cafe in question is called ‘The Feel Good Club’, their mentality devoted to making you feel relaxed and comfortable and happy while you’re enjoying your overpriced iced latte and remarkably tasty broccoli and cashew panini. (I recognise my own anti-consumerist hypocrisy. My only defence is that I’m a critic of capitalism, but everyone’s gotta treat themselves sometimes). Immediately I walk in and feel vaguely enchanted by the copious amounts of greenery everywhere and the buzz of people, probably much like I will be in approximately 10 minutes, typing away at their MacBooks and chatting to friends or colleagues. 

I’m greeted by a friendly woman at the door. Confirming my suspicions that I’m dressed like a cross between an oversized toddler and a student who’s just discovered British heart foundation, she takes one look at my dungarees and asks if I’m here to do work. I nod and she leads me to a window seat, complete with cushion, plug socket, and a calming view of the drizzling city outside. Me being typically me and trying not to overtly display as much awkwardness as I customarily operate under, nod (again) and smile (mask still on of course. It’s been over a year and I’ve still not gotten the hang of this), thanking her for her for her consideration. I realise only as she’s walking away, that whilst this is an idyllic spot, were I perusing the pages of Keatsian poetry or catching up with a friend to discuss Mill’s philosophy, it is not ideal for the revision notes and essay writing I need to do in preparation for my exam next week. 

I spend the first 10 minutes trying to make do, my laptop perched at a precarious angle in front of me, and my notebook propped up on my knee. To no avail. I eventually manage to catch the attention of a waiter and feebly request to move to a table if at all possible. I cringe at my own self-conscious clumsiness. Hopefully the steady lo-fi beats playing in the background of the cafe mask the palpitations of my flustered heart. And these masks are wonders for concealing reluctant but inevitable blushes of embarrassment. 

The servers are of course lovely and I am led to another table, with plug sockets and space for me to spread out all of my things (much to the avail of the two men sat on either side of the same bench). This place is lovely and the vibe is supposed to be very calming. I think the feeling of being immersed in an urban oasis perhaps works a bit better if you’re already a bit chilled and not easily frightened by the sound of a coffee machine, or the clinking of plates and mugs. I know I know, I’m 20 years old, I hear it too.  

A waiter comes to take my order and as she does I build up the confidence to also ask for the wifi password. It is at this point that I am reminded of my own cynicism. The password is ‘youareenough’, and I only just manage to hide my involuntary smirk. I can’t help it, I’m just used to emotionally repressive humour. Confronting your own feelings over coffee is a wholly new experience to me. Can I get an article out of that? 

A quick photo of my food and artfully poured iced coffee when it arrives (it’s not basic because it didn’t go on my instragram story) and then on with work (after this brief rumination of course). Do I feel good? I think so, maybe a bit stressed. But hey, a few spins around a pole and a trip to the Ally-G later and I’m sure I’ll be as right as the rain falling down on this humdrum town. I’ve aways known it was the slaughtering of trees transformed into the pages of a good book which would offer my oasis rather than all this fucking foliage.