For years, friends of mine have tried to convince me to try bubble tea. I have to confess that the idea of putting pebbles in my drink and then not knowing when they’d magically appear in my mouth is something that’s always given me pause when it comes to my willingness to try it, but after witnessing dozens of people successfully consume this beverage in front of me without choking to death, I decided to attempt it.
It was a beautiful, sunny day with just the right amount of warmth to merit such a drink. As if by magic, a store appeared on the corner of where I was walking, advertising the “Best Bubble Tea” in the state. I was also alone, which meant that I could additionally enjoy this new experience in complete calm and serenity while I mindlessly scrolled through my social media feeds on a park bench outside.
“This is it,” I told myself. I even texted a few friends to brag about my courage as I walked into the store, congratulating myself the whole time.
The man behind the counter was quite possibly the friendliest person alive. He began the conversation by asking me what I’d like, clearly with an assumption that I knew the answer. After 30 seconds of awkward silence and countless “umm”s, it became apparent to him that I was a novice.
He emerged from behind the counter and stood next to me, painstakingly going through his entire menu as he dutifully explained the differences between milk teas and fruit teas, as well as elaborating on how he had about 700 flavors of the latter and that I couldn’t go wrong regardless of which option I chose.
Renewed with a sense of confidence after this pep talk, I boldly stated that I wanted passion fruit tea. He poured me a glass that had already been filled with a bunch of gelatinous balls, which I had just learned were tapioca pearls. Despite looking sinister to me off the bat, I bravely reminded myself that this is what people drink in the 21st century, and I didn’t even bat an eye when he handed me a straw that had a spoon attached to the end of it.
I paid for my order, thanked him wholeheartedly for his help, and began walking out the store. I took my first sip and thought it was delicious, so I turned back around while at the front door, and opened my mouth to tell him so.
We’ll never know whether it was the act of turning around, the speed at which I apparently slurped, or just the timing of it all, but I somehow managed to – at that exact moment – suck up a tapioca pearl and get it stuck right in the middle of my throat.
I can’t even imagine the thoughts that must have run through this poor man’s mind as he watched me gag on his doorstep, clutching my throat like I was about to die after eating a substance that, for all intents and purposes, was hardly even solid. He ran to my aid, asking me if I needed an ambulance, at which point I genuinely questioned whether death was preferable to the humiliation that I was enduring at that very moment.
But even though I was probably meant to die that day, I realized that I was a mom (and therefore that resting for any length of time – especially eternity – was thereby prohibited) and so I somehow pelted myself in the chest hard enough to dislodge the offending item. I collected what was left of my pride, mustered a weak smile, thanked the now-severely-traumatized shop owner, and walked out of the store.
When I told my 8-year-old about my near-death experience, she simply shook her head and responded, “Oh, Mommy… we just can’t take you anywhere, can we…”
Clearly not.