I pulled up to the Starbucks drive-thru this afternoon.

When my husband spent roughly an hour this morning digging my car out from under many, many centimeters of snow

{that’s a thing, by the way, that happens when you move to Canada. You begin measuring snow in centimeters instead of inches and it seems to be the only kind of measuring that I’ve completely switched over. I still have no idea what grams are so I order deli meat by the slice and did you know that there are crazy people out there who measure children’s fevers in Celsius?}

and my children were happily celebrating their first actual snow day in years, I thought, well, it took me almost two hours to get home last night, I’ll just inch my way to work today and let Dax Shepherd’s interview with Michael Pena keep me busy and then pretty much hunker down in my seventh floor office for the day because winter is the actual worst. But, alas, I discovered a Starbucks drive-thru about a block and a half from my office and at 2:00pm every day this little voice inside my head reminds me that I’ve been sedentary for most of the day and that my body needs exercise and a walk down the seven flights of stairs is actually a work out.

So this afternoon I went for a non-fat, flat white.

Now don’t ask me how a flat white is different than a latte because in my head they are exactly the same, but a flat white makes me feel more caffeinated so it’s currently my drink of choice when I’m not sticking my entire face directly into my kitchen coffee pot.

{This new job, you guys. It’s good. It’s so good. But I. Am. Tired. Picture that kid in The Blair Witch Project only with exhaustion instead of fear.}

And there was a teenaged boy who made my drink and while he was making my drink he systematically listed every single pastry item that this particular establishment had behind the counter. “Do you want a croissant?” “Do you want a cake pop?” “Do you want a piece of loaf cake?” “Can I interest you in a muffin?” “How about a cookie?” And as he was asking in perfect sing-song and I was rejecting each and every offer, “No thank you just the coffee please” he was dancing and smiling and laughing and goodness that almost-man was full of glee.

He loves his job.

So often I leave a restaurant or a salon or a clothing store or Browns at the Promenade {nobody there like their job omg} or Baskin Robbins or a Target and I think to myself, or sometimes I can’t really stop myself and I say out loud, “Well, she really loves her job,” in my best sarcasm font. I mean, come on, you work at Target how can you not be happy? But in all seriousness, more often than not these days, I encounter people doing their jobs who just really don’t like doing their jobs. People annoyed that they have to give me the DHL packages I wasn’t home to collect. People who act put out that I wanted to try on four pairs of glasses instead of two. People who cannot believe that I asked for my coffee to be made the way I actually want it at Tim Hortons.

But then there was this guy at the Starbucks drive-thru.

Dancing.

I want to be like this guy. Sing-songing my way through the day. Even when that crazy Jeep lady rejects all the pastries. On a should-be snow day.