HUMOR
I Paid Way Too Much for Peppermint Tea
And I have the napkin math to prove it
I have an allergic reaction to spending too much money — unless it’s on Lego. I start to sweat, my heart begins to race, and my head is flooded with anxiety along with a shot of pure terror. Thus, I do everything I can to save a few extra bucks here and there, by being a rational cheapskate. That is my own way of saying that I try to rationalize purchases before committing to them.
What happens when I buy something I regret?
I try desperately to rationalize the purchase so I don’t spiral down into the depths of depression assisted by buyers' remorse.
This technique usually works. I’ve successfully rationalized the purchase of a bucket of KFC saying it’s only once a month. I’ve reasoned with my head that the expensive shirt I bought would help me get a girlfriend. I have also told myself that the $1000 I spent on a gaming computer was worth the 12 months I spent addicted to Minecraft.
However, the peppermint tea I bought one fateful day in July is something I can not justify no matter how much I try. It is a day that has a special place in the dark depths of my memory — a moment of weakness that has haunted me ever since.
I write this story because I want to share the terror of this first-world problem. Continue with care dear reader, as the tale unfolds with an innocent text from a not so long forgotten friend.
The Promise of a Free Meal
“Hey, Kasun. Guess who is back in Sri Lanka!”
“OH. MY. GAWD! Girl, it's you!”
“Yeah! We should totally meet up for lunch or something. You free on Sunday?”
My thumbs came to a halt as I read the text from my dear friend Malsha Gunarathne. She had gone overseas for her studies and I hadn’t seen her in years. We were once close but time had pulled our relationship thin. Maybe it was a chance to catch up? I thought, typing in yes.
But suddenly, red flags shot up and alarm bells went off in my head. Going out for lunch with a girl poisoned by the luxuries of Europe did not bode well for my poor wallet. Plus, we could always catch up over dinner at my place. A home-cooked meal was more meaningful — and way cheaper. That’s how I rationalized the refusal and started formulating a classic excuse.
“Oh, Sunday? I’m a bit busy. I have this huge exam coming up,” I started typing when suddenly three magical words lit up the screen.
“It’s my treat!”
“Of course I’ll be there! We have so much to catch up on! I’ve missed you so much and there is so much I want to tell you.”
“Hehehe. Awesome, I’ll send the details tomorrow.”
“Sure, can’t wait to see you!”
And with that, I had unknowingly signed a death certificate — the death certificate of my poor wallet.
A Fancy Place With Fancy People
She sent me the details the next day. It was a place in the heart of Colombo— one of the most high-class districts in Sri Lanka. It had a strange name I couldn’t pronounce, French I think, with a 5-star rating on Google maps. That’s how I knew it was a good place to eat.
I woke up early on the agreed-upon day. I showered, shaved, and even put on some of my brother's body spray. I slipped on my expensive brand named white shirt, dark blue trousers, and broke out my 2-year-old fancy black shoes. I even put on my trusty blazer and complemented it with a bow tie.
I turned to the mirror and admired the masterpiece that stared back at me. I looked like a million bucks and smelled like a garden on manly buff roses. One must dress their best to impress their lady friends.
I arrived at the place 30 minutes earlier than planned. It was an old European style building with old stone walls glistening white. At the door was a finely dressed man in a sleek suit and tie. He smiled, gave a half-hearted bow, and invited me in.
The inside of the restaurant was even more immaculate with velvet seating, mahogany tables draped in silk, and one too many chandeliers fueled by vanity.
I slipped into a seat at the back of the place and decided to spend my time observing the other finely dressed men and women at this establishment. They almost seemed uncomfortable as they laughed and talked business with forced western accents.
“So fake,” I scoffed under my breath with an air of superiority, oblivious to the fact that I too was a fake fancy person in a fancy place.
He Forced Me To Do It!
“Would the fine gentlemen like to place an order?” a crisp voice brought me back out of my hypocrisy.
I turned to the side and saw a man standing next to me in white and black attire that reminded me of a posh penguin. His hair was oiled slick and his mustache was sculpted into a fine line that was a cheap imitation of authenticity. An immaculately folded napkin graced the fore portion of a left arm held at a perfect 90-degree angle. With his right hand he held out a menu — matte black with golden letters etched into the velvet cover.
“Oh no, I’m waiting for a friend.”
“Very good sir,” he sighed and left, only to return 10 minutes later.
“Would the fine gentlemen like to place an order?”
“Not until my friend gets here.”
“Very good sir,” he sighed and left, only to return 15 minutes later.
“Sir, you should order,” he said and then shifted his eyes to the entrance, “I insist.”
I suddenly felt uneasy. What was he implying? Did I have to order to stay? Was this what social pressure felt like?!
My heart started racing and my palms began to sweat. I had to order something or, I honestly didn’t know what would happen, but I didn’t intend to find out. Anyway, I could pass the bill onto my friend. That’s how I rationalized it.
“Fine, give me the menu,” I sighed, defeated by the unease.
The menu was an intricate collection of wavy lines and squiggles that I couldn’t understand. I think it was written in italic masquerading as French. I squinted my eyes and flipped to the first page. That’s when I saw something that I could actually read.
Numbers, big numbers next to wavy text. These were the prices, and they made my stomach twist! The prices were off the charts, Rs. 1000, Rs. 3000, Rs. 5800, I couldn’t afford anything on that list. I franticly flipped through the pages, desperate to find something cheap. But the lowest number I found was the last line of the last page — 450.
“I’ll have this,” I sighed through gritted teeth, pointing a shaky hand at the text.
“Ah, very good sir. I’ll bring it right away,” he smiled, took the menu from my hands with a practiced motion, and walked off, leaving me to sulk in my own dismay.
I had no time to rationalize my thoughts. Everything happened so fast and the pressure had gotten to me. I sat there dumbfounded for 10 long minutes and then the penguin returned with a teacup, a saucer, and a pot of liquid.
“Enjoy.”
It Didn’t Add Up
There I was, eyes wide, staring in disbelief at what was supposedly peppermint tea. Inside the porcelain pot was a light green liquid with five or six green leaves drowning in agony. It was sickening. Worst of all, this was Rs. 450!
I couldn’t believe it. My brain ached as it tried to make sense of the atrocity before me. What made it cost so much? I had to find out before my mind melted in madness. So I pulled out a pen and grabbed a napkin to do some maths.
Get your pocket protectors and large frame glasses because this is going to get real nerdy, real fast. Hang tight and best of luck for the next few paragraphs. For context 1 US dollar is around 190 Sri Lankan Rupees (Rs.).
Peppermint tea is basically, peppermint leaves boiled in hot water. So, let’s see how much it will cost to make.
1. Peppermint
You can buy 100g of good quality peppermint in Sri Lanka for Rs. 60. The pot had at most 6 leaves. One leaf is approximately 0.5g. So how much did the peppermint cost?
(0.5X6) X 0.6= Rs. 1.80
2. Water
Water in Sri Lanka is measured in units which is equal to 1000 liters. One unit of water is Rs. 50 on average. The teapot had about 250 milliliters. So how much did the water cost?
(50/1000)X0.25 = Rs. 0.0125
3. Cost of energy
According to my calculation, it approximately took 76.65 kJ of energy to boil 250ml of water.
Electricity is more expensive than gas in Sri Lanka so I gave them the benefit of the doubt and assumed they used an electric kettle to boil the water. Here, 1 kWh of electricity is Rs. 15. We can turn Kilo Joules (kJ) to Kilo Watt hours (kWh) by dividing it by 3600. So how much did the energy cost?
(76.65/3600)X15 = Rs. 0.315
Now if we add them all up what’s the grand total of this peppermint tea?
1.80 + 0.01 + 0.32 =Rs. 2.13
Two rupees and 13 cents! What!? This couldn’t be right. Did I include the sugar? Oh, wait! There was no sugar!
This peppermint tea was 246 times what it was supposed to be. I wanted to scream, shout and berate the manager for this clear and unlawful highway robbery. But, I held back with all my strength. It was not my money. That’s how I rationalized it.
Cruel Reality
I sipped the bitter, lifeless liquid as time moved on slowly. My thoughts drifted to capitalism, marketing, and the cruel reality of consumerism. It was the system that made this liquid so expensive — the veil of posh and aristocratic beliefs and the copycat nature of this nation of sheep.
I laughed under my breath at the other patrons around me. Fools, giving up their treasures in pursuit of vanity and self-image. It was a sad bitter reality. Almost as sad and bitter as this peppermint tea.
I drank it down through gritted teeth and placed it back on the saucer. My contemplations had enlightened me to the cruel reality we live in. If only others would realize it. I wished the best to all the other patrons around me and sighed a silent prayer for their salvation.
Suddenly, my pocket lit up and my phone called out to me. I pulled it out and saw a message that made me scream.
“Hey, Kasun, I got caught up with some family thing. Let’s meet up next week.”
The phone slipped from my grasp and hit the table making the cutlery fly and clatter on the floor. Everything came down crashing around me and I realized that I too was a fool, played by this cruel and unjust reality.
Final Thoughts
Hope you enjoyed the story. In the end, I paid Rs. 495 including service charges. And for that money, I received a bitter tea and a few important lessons about myself.
- I am greedy and jump the gun before considering my options.
- I tend to laugh at others, oblivious to my own hypocrisy.
- I have a need to rationalize everything. Even now, I’m rationalizing spending that money by thinking it taught me life lessons.
- It goes to show that we can learn something from anything if we really try hard enough.
And finally,
5. I hate peppermint tea.
If you want to check out why I call myself a rational cheapskate check out my other story.
Thank you for reading and have a great day!
