A proud defence of pumpkin spice lattes

I'm sorry I like autumn so much. I'm sorry that, because of people like me, there are pumpkin spice-scented dryer sheets and pumpkin spice-scented cough syrup. I'm sorry that when you talk to me about your pink wine and then take an arrogant sip of my PSL, I get to revel in making better beverage choices. I'm sorry that you're reading this right now and getting angry.

And I'm sorry I haven't written it sooner.

Here's the thing about pumpkin spice lattes: they are delicious and I love them. Like pie, they evoke memories of forcing myself to finish a serving despite knowing that doing so will make feel sick minutes later and wish for death. They remind me of school trips to pumpkin patches where I'd refuse to go through the adjacent haunted house because no thank you/I'm better than it is. They are the liquid equivalent of wearing four sweaters and a scarf in 20-degree September weather and claiming that I am not sweating, and I am fine, and the only reason I'm about to pass out is because of how much I love seasonally-induced bliss.

I love them and you are wrong not to*.

*Unless you genuinely hate pumpkins. Because lord knows if Starbucks released a cilantro latte, I would drink it only while burying myself in sand.

But that isn't the point. The point is (I say, as you cling to the contrarian persona you've constructed for yourself while playing acoustic guitar in the park) that pumpkin spice lattes are the best. They are warm, and they taste like a terrific scarf. They are not the reason summer is over, nor are they why you left your umbrella on the subway. It isn't their fault that you wore flip-flops in March and embarrassed yourself accordingly, or that the Instagram photo of your cottage lake only got 14 likes. They are not sentient beings, they are not rising up to challenge you. They are a novelty treat for which I stand.

And you better believe it's because they're tied to autumn, a season intrinsically superior to the garbage time that is spring and summer. They are a drink designed for declining Facebook event invites; for wearing capes and jackets and coats and layers, and for having a blessed reprieve from wondering whether it would simply be easier if you wrapped yourself in a dress made of electric fans and carried on accordingly.

They are the reminder that for the next few months, you will thankfully not resemble the congressman in the first X-Men movie who bursts into water upon becoming a mutant. They are the dietary equivalent of someone placing a comforting hand on your face and telling you to go to bed because this cold you have will last until at least April, but it's okay. Everyone is sick. Drink another pumpkin spice latte, you beautiful fool.

But I get it: they're intimidating. They're a lifestyle. They're a source of joy that for some reason isn't as exciting as pink wine and whatever it is you freaks consume between June and August. They remind you of Back to School and of Starbucks refusing to advertise shaken teas anymore. They are a tidal wave of emotions and liquefied sentiment. And while that sounds pretty gross now that I've typed it, I still don't hate it?

Because, truly, and at the end of the day, you will only ever hate pumpkin spice lattes as much as you hate yourself. Bless.

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