I went into the pharmacy to buy vitamins. Not a vitamin—vitamins, plural, because apparently one is no longer enough. Somewhere along the line, a single daily vitamin became a sign of laziness, like brushing your teeth with only one hand. Now you need a regimen. A pill organizer that looks like air-traffic control.

The vitamin aisle was not an aisle. It was a city block. I’m pretty sure I crossed into another ZIP code halfway through the pharmacy. 

And the names. Oh, the names.

There’s Doctors Prefer These Vitamins.
Which doctors?
Best at what?
Are these doctors from Mt. Sinai or from Pedro’s Medical School in Cancun?

Then there’s Pharmacist Developed.
Again, which pharmacist?

Next to that is The Work of Nature.
Work performed where in nature?
In a forest? A meadow? 

I’m an Eagle Scout.  I’ve spent lots of time in nature. Nature does not have factories. Nature has dirt. Bugs. Things that sting you for no reason. If this was truly “the work of nature,” I’d expect twigs and ants in the bottle. 

By the way, if you see a factory in the woods, you know that they are not making vitamins.  Time to call the sheriff.

Then there’s A New Take on Life.
Will taking this offer a new take on my life?
And if so, what take are we talking about? A book? Is it a mystery? A romance? A medical thriller titled “We Thought We Were Healthy Until We Read the Side Effects”?

I don’t want a new take. I just want my knees to stop sounding like popcorn.

Then there’s Athletes, Try These.
Most athletes are taking something to build themselves up.  At my age, I’m not going for a trophy. I’d rather exercise rolling around my den in my desk chair.

And don’t get me started on the subtext. Every bottle seems to be judging me.

“Doctors Prefer These Vitamins” is saying, You could do better.
“The Work of Nature”  is saying, You’re unnatural.

“A New Take on Life” is saying, Your current take is disappointing.

What I want is honesty.

I want a bottle that says:
“I Have the Ingredients, They Work, and the Bottle Is $5 Cheaper.”

No waterfalls. No doctors with mysterious reputations. Just facts and a receipt.

But vitamins aren’t alone in this madness.

Coffee has joined the cult.

There used to be coffee. That was it. Now coffee has a personality, a backstory and a personal trainer.

Here’s a typical numerical roast guide:

1. Light to medium roast
2. Medium roast
3. Medium to dark roast
4. Dark roast
5. Very dark roast

This makes sense. Numbers. Order. Logic. I can work with that.

But then—chaos.

French Roast.
Breakfast Roast.
After-Dinner Roast.
Light French Roast.
Dark Turkish Roast

Excuse me—what?

French Roast sounds sophisticated. I feel underdressed just ordering it. Do I need a beret when I drink it? 

Breakfast Roast implies that other coffees are inappropriate before noon. Like if I drink Dark Roast at 8 a.m., alarms go off. and the town constable will arrive with a summons.

After-Dinner Roast suggests timing. Is there a penalty if I drink it at lunch? Will the coffee know? Will it judge me like the vitamins?

Turkish Roast, dark or otherwise, sounds like it requires a passport and more immunizations.

All of these names come with price tags. The fancier the name, the higher the price. You’re not paying for coffee; you’re paying for a story. A lifestyle. A sense that some retired English Teacher with nothing to do answered an ad to come up with these names.

And yet—the best coffee I’ve ever had?

The diner.

No brand. No roast guide. No origin story. Just a chipped mug and a waitress who calls everyone “hon.”

No one has ever asked a diner waitress,
“Excuse me, could you please tell me the type of roast this is?”

Because we don’t care.

It’s hot. It’s coffee. It’s delicious, and it works.

You drink it and suddenly you can face the world. Or at least the morning.

The diner coffee doesn’t promise enlightenment. It doesn’t claim to be organic. It doesn’t come from a single-origin bean named Juan Valdez.  It just shows up and makes the day a little brighter.

And that’s the problem.

We’ve replaced usefulness with marketing. We no longer buy products; we audition for lifestyles. Everything has to mean something.

I don’t need my vitamins to reflect my values. I need them to not roll under the table as I reach for them.

I don’t need my coffee to tell a story. I need it to keep me from yelling at stupid TV commercials.

So there I was, standing in the pharmacy, lost in the vitamin city, holding bottles that promised transformation, nature, expertise and chapters I didn’t ask for.

I put them back.

 I went to a diner.

The waitress poured coffee without asking a single question about my preferences, beliefs, or desired roast level.

And at that moment, I felt healthy.

Michael Kossove is professor emeritus at Tuoro University. He lives in Kauneonga Lake, NY, and writes health and humor columns (sometimes both at the same time) for the River Reporter.