At the height of my addiction I drank three saucer sized cups a day. I would languish over that morning cup. The smell of it before the first sip was tantamount to God breathing life into Adam, animating the inanimate. A cup before leaving for work then another once I got into the office, by 10am every cell was buzzing with caffeine. I crashed around lunch and hurried for my next fix around 3 internally berating myself for bowing to temptation.
This had been my routine for months. I refrained on weekends and noticed I would get debilitating headaches. Two months ago I decided to quit. I would not be conquered by a cup of crushed bean water. The first weeks were excruciating. I would walk past Starbucks looking in the windows with longing, like an ex-girlfriend driving by to catch a glimpse of an old flame. I was ostensibly a zombie, a slow moving caricature of a person, dead on the inside.
I was done with coffee for a solid month. Then a month of friends coming into town and itineraries run over with late night shenanigans, inevitably led me back to my coffee guzzling ways. Here I am buzzing away, waiting for the afternoon crash. Most days I can quell coffee’s siren song but I really thought I could stop and never look back. Turns out the sweet promise a cup of coffee holds is just too good to quit.
Damn you coffee.