Coffee and Me: A Love Story

It was fate. It truly was. I was 15, a young unsuspecting female in the throes of a miserable influenza season. I was desperate, willing to try anything. He was dark, hot, and available, a forbidden fruit. I was tempted, and could not resist. One taste was all it took. I was in love.

Ok, ok, it really wasn’t that bad. I promise (and hopefully you’re still reading, rather than running to the toilet). But I do have to admit, I have been drinking coffee since I was 15, and I’m unsure as to how to proceed. My dad made it for me, with a bit of milk and honey, to sweeten a terrible flu bug with, as I recall it, an extremely bad sore throat. It was heavenly, and not only that, I hadn’t been allowed to drink it before then, so it made me feel a bit more adult. Between that, and the taste, I really was hooked. And it’s presented a problem ever since.

See, I need coffee in the morning, emphasis on the need. I’m crabby, groggy, short, and miserable. Until that luscious, warm, fresh brewed cup of java, with a little bit of sugar to sweeten the deal. Then, I turn into my usual sunny self, I remember to look on the positive side of life, and, let’s face it, I probably get an awful lot more housework done. Somewhere in my mind (maybe from too much googling, too much reading, or perhaps my usual worrywarting), I’ve gotten this insane idea that I should totally be able to do all this stuff without wine, coffee, cookies, a bubble bath. I should be a one-woman-wrecking crew, complete with all the patience in the world, and the ability to lift 200lbs without blinking an eye. Which brings me to my conclusion.

I. Am. Ridiculous. <—- True story.

Well, maybe not ridiculous, but seriously, I find myself making a half-astonished-half-what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about face just proofreading that. I am 90% certain that there’s not a mother in my generation that doesn’t at least have something for herself to get through the day (and if you know of anyone, don’t pop my bubble, I’m happy with it). In fact, I’m pretty sure there was a post circulating on facebook somewhere that said, when faced with the womanhood ideal, they were pretty sure they were born a man. I’m inclined to agree. Maybe that was the ideal a million years ago (or maybe even 40 years ago), but today, as much as I would like to live up to that, it’s entirely unrealistic. That ideal also came with switchboards, and no TV, and in all honesty, I’m not entirely certain it actually existed.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have another cup. (Guess I solved my problem.)


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