Episode XIII: My Cup
Mine Mine Mine. The possessive pronoun is the perfect excuse for the egoist's whim. If we have to live in a time when we all have similar things (the same phone, the same telescope or the same bag) ¿why not take the customization to where we have it closest, within reach? This glass is mine. And nobody else's. Not because I'm a prude who does not share (anyone who lives in the land of the "Mate" exchanges without problems!) But because it offers the right combination to be many and at the same time one. It contains liquids and crowds. The cup and the lid are white and seem to me like canvases about to be released: they mimic the shape of those disposable cups of the modern coffee shops where the barista writes my name with four letters, invariably in diminutive, perhaps to save time avoiding some characters (not only does it happen to me: any anonymous Martin will be an unambiguous Mart). But as in the trick of a trained magician, the secret is in the sleeve. Functionally, the silicone sleeve will prevent me from getting burned by a very hot drink or from slipping my glass by a bad move from my clumsy fingers. However, in the ornamental is the taste. There are sleeves of primary colors, blue, red and yellow, and others of more inspired and less frequent combinations, lilacs, violets and turquoises. An endless number of tones so that everyone can choose the look of their glass according to mood, weather, the club they are fans of and other reasons even more trivial or even obsessive (someone's case is documented, ahem, who changes every day the silicone to match the color of his shirt). The My Cup flips the bird to uniformity and depersonalization, is the song of a lilac, violet or turquoise swan in the cement lake of a gray city. Before leaving home, I look in the mirror and see that my blue shirt matches the color of the cup in my hand. Then I can start the day quietly. ¿So What? That's just me.