T here’s a dime-sized hole in the seal of my new Taster’s Choice canister when I get to work.

My colleague had punctured the foil carefully, in a very specific spot on the lower left corner.

“For us righties,” she explains. When you tilt the can and shake, coffee granules trickle neatly into your mug. Less air exposure keeps the coffee fresh longer, and that pungent brand-new-can-of-coffee smell doesn’t fade after the first five cups. Totally awesome.

Only… it takes forever. I’m used to ripping the seal open and spooning coffee into my mug. Same amount every morning, one-two-three, a cuppa.

“That’s not how you do coffee,” my colleague insists. Coffee is an experience, a luxurious pursuit that demands its due level of respect. You don’t do coffee standing and most definitely not in a foam cup. If you rush to measure those pellets, you’ve got coffee all wrong.

Drink for thought. Discreetly, I begin analyzing people’s coffee habits. Some know the art, others are helplessly clueless. Among my oblivious guinea pigs are:

1. A sister who won’t add milk to her cup before removing all the “fizz” from her boiling brew. Personally, I think the bubbles are a key feature of coffee, but hey, that’s a sign of respect. She scores.

2. Another colleague, who will prepare coffee from single packets only, preferably hazelnut. Score.

3. The grocery store owner at my corner, who drinks from his own private label cups. (I wonder if he actually drinks; there’s a cup in his hand all day. A walking advertisement?)

4. A variety of people who take their coffees cold. Or worse, lukewarm. They miss the point entirely.

5. My mother, who uses artificial sweeteners. And foam cups. That beats lukewarm. Case closed.

6. My kids, products of an impeccable chinuch, who will only drink from mugs. Granted, it’s hot cocoa, but it’s never too early to hone life skills.

7. My colleague, who pierces microscopic holes in foil seals to preserve freshness.

8. Me, who won’t drink coffee sans the accompaniment of chocolate.

I’m still drafting my thesis, but my conclusion is drawn. My colleague is right.

I take my newfound appreciation of coffee to new heights. So many mundane parts of life tick with potential thrills. Rain, the vibrant pounding on my window as my eyelids flutter closed. Hot toast, scallion cream cheese, molten and fragrant. Friday night stillness, sipping tea — from a glass, naturally — while the kids slumber.

And spas.

Spas are proof that people haven’t forgotten the roses. Clinking bars of classical music kneaded into the sharp scent of lavender. Soft, hot-vapor mist in dimmed tungsten, muted footsteps on carpeted floors. It’s there, evidence of a society that hasn’t succumbed to bleeping screens and FaceTime, to the raging split-second-results epidemic and virtual relationships.

A new spa opens up. It’s called Spa on the Go. Spa — on the go. The contradiction hurts. I can’t wrap my head around this.

My proof goes up in smoke. We’re a generation that’s circling the drain; a drain filled with coffee — my own coffee, from my dear mug — because who has time to finish drinking?

Objections aside, I like this place. I picture their ads.

Five-minute massage, while you stand!

Drive-thru manicures!

No time for a facial? We’ll bring one out to your car. (Excerpted from Family First, Issue 591)