Confessions of a coffee addict

When I lived in New York (New York City to those who live outside the City), caffeine was my drug of choice. Now, it’s a toss-up between caffeine and various brands of NSAIDs. But I digress.

Most of the time,  I self-administered the caffeine in the form of coffee. People who know me now say I drink a lot of coffee. They only say that because they didn’t know me back then.

In my mid-twenties, I started to suffer from some of the medical side-effects of caffeine. No, not nervousness and jitters. Everyone in New York looks jittery to outsiders. That knee thing was just the “soundman’s jiggle.” Anyway, I went to see a doctor and he said to give up caffeine. Yikes!

Chocolate wasn’t going to be such a huge issue. Giving up soda was going to be a bit of a problem. Cutting out tea and coffee was going to friggin’ kill me.

I made the attempt. For three days and nights, I did without my morning coffee, afternoon coffee, evening coffee and tea, and nighttime tea. Even the glass of tea I kept I kept on the nightstand was replaced with water. For three days and nights, I was my usual self — except at any given moment, I was a half second away from going cosmic on someone’s butt. Usually I was at least 10 seconds away.

The fourth day was Saturday and I could sleep in for a bit. When I awoke, it was to the heavenly aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. My dear, sweet, loving boyfriend came into the bedroom bearing a cup of dark-roast, liquid orgasm. He smiled that secret smile and said, “Here, honey. Drink this.”

“Sweetie, you know I’ve given up caffeine.”

A feral growl came out of his throat. “DRINK THIS! NOW!”

I guess I wasn’t handling withdrawal nearly as well as I thought.

Credit: Quasipalm/wikimedia.org