Men my age are not riding high these days compared to back in the Renaissance or the 19th century, so I am taking a back seat and not getting fussed up. I appreciate new stuff like YouTube and the Unsubscribe option, and the peanut butter latte, but I don’t know who famous people are anymore – Abe Lincoln, Al Kaline, AJ Liebling are on my A-list – but I wouldn’t know Adele if she walked up and offered me her autograph. I’m out of it. So I keep my mouth shut. I’ve listened to people discussing their loyalty to particular coffees from specific regions of Kenya or Nicaragua and I don’t weigh in on this. I’d be okay with Maxwell House Instant. Coffee is coffee. Debating it is like arguing about doormats. You walk in, you wipe your feet. It’s not a transformative experience. I feel the same way about gender: it’s your beeswax, not mine. Be who you want to be, but don’t expect me to call you them or it or us.

I drink coffee because it is a warm liquid and I accept the myth that it enlivens the brain, though probably hot water from the tap would serve as well. My coffee habit is a cultural choice: I don’t want to be part of the tea crowd, it’d mean I’d have to have a ponytail and wear linen clothing and have a cockadoodle named Josephine. I drink coffee and have short hair and jeans with a hole in the knee.