Walking into Starbucks at 7:15PM tonight, I uncovered one more miniscule advantage to being a member of the gentler sex, and that is the edge of the one-stall restroom. This particular Starbucks boasts separate lavatory accomodations for gentleman and ladies, and a khaki-clad, bespectacled man waited his turn in the alcove.

“Is anyone in – ” I gestured in the direction of the door nearest myself.

He kind of gave me a weird look and shook his head no. I thanked him and strode ahead.

As the door shut behind me, I realized my naivete. While I wouldn’t think twice about using a single-stall mens’ room, I guess it’s kind of bizarre to assume that the opposite would hold true. And so I smiled to myself and continued my business.

The “low” of this Bohemian Rapshody allusion came on the short jaunt back to my car, during which I juggled three large espresso-based beverages, a sandwich, and a watermelon Naked juice. “Thank God for Starbucks” was never a phrase I thought I’d find myself typing, but tonight I was SO tired and I wanted a redeye au lait SO bad that the gratitude was an all-encompassing flood of pro-corporate capitulation.

It can no longer be denied: I am someone who, despite years of rallying against the dying of the mom-and-pop coffeeshop, thanks god for starbucks. I am a total – TOTAL – asshole.