Most mornings I stop by the local coffee house, where, naturally, I order tea. The place is usually crowded. Businessmen in not-quite-right suits. Younger guys with product in their hair. Sour-looking career girls. And then there are the ubiquitous older men, long hair, t-shirts, and flip-flops, reading the LA Times or WSJ, multi-millionaires who retired at 55 and spend their day chilling out at the beach.
Mothers pop in with their children, spoiled young things with a taste for lattes. You have not seen soccer moms until you have seen Orange County soccer moms. They really are a cut above the rest. They often remain very fuckable in their yoga pants even in their 30s and 40s. Drinks in hand they all mount the Escalade and ferry the kids to school.
My brew of choice is an expertly calibrated blend of 62% pure white tea and 38% green Japanese sencha. White tea, I have found, has a more exquisite flavour. If black tea is a fortysomething cougar, and if green tea is a free-spirited hippy chick into yoga, then white tea is a delicate 16-year old girl, silken hair and dewy lips, blossoming into womanhood. I recommend it.
There is a gym nearby. It specializes in Pilates, which, so far as I can determine, is an elaborate stretching session for hotties in yoga pants, and for which the hotties themselves (or, more precisely, their husbands) probably dish out a considerable amount. For women like these, life is just one big photo opportunity.