I like coffee. A lot.
Coffee has been in my life for as long as I can remember. I come from a long line of women fueled solely by caffeine. My maternal grandmother served in the Women’s Army Corps in World War II, and in our family, it is understood that though her love of country may have spurred her to enlist, it was Grandma’s love of coffee that kept her strong during those harrowing days. My mother taught seventh-grade students for many, many years, and no doubt it was those morning infusions of caffeine that kept her sane and those children alive. So I am well aware of the magical properties of the dark-roasted bean, and have upheld my end of our family tradition, pouring my first cup of java as soon as I get up, then switching to decaf in the afternoon once my hands start their caffeine-induced jangling, indicating I’ve had enough for the day.
Recently, however, I’ve had to reevaluate my intake for health reasons. Coffee can aggravate a condition I’m still dealing with, and though I’ve pretended I never read this little fact, therefore it doesn’t exist, it’s gotten to the point where I can ignore it no longer. I decided perhaps I should maybe track how much coffee I drink every day.
Eight cups. And I use the term “cups” loosely—“mugs” would be much, much more accurate. I easily polish off a pot of coffee a day. Uh-oh. I might have a problem.
Some people out there would probably just quit coffee cold turkey. I, however, am not a quitter. Coffee has been part of my daily dietary intake since my early teenage years. A life without it would be as bleak and depressing as that made-for-TV movie from the eighties--The Day After, I think it was called—which was about nuclear war but could just have easily been about life without coffee. Only in my tragedy, a young Steve Guttenberg was not going to run after me with a full steaming cup of espresso and tell me everything would be okay. So quitting cold turkey was not an option. Cutting back, though . . . that, I could do.
My plan: reduce my coffee intake to three cups (okay, okay, mugs) a day. If the benefits (sleeping better, fewer digestive issues) outweighed the detriments (irritation, headaches, murderous intent), I’d try to reduce it to two, then one cu—mug—a day.
I was feeling optimistic at the start. Who doesn’t want to sleep better? Or maybe not have their eyeballs jitter right out of their skull? I felt smug and self-righteous that first morning.
That first afternoon, I was stomping around the house, yelling at the cat for using the litter box instead of the toilet. (Granted, I’ve never trained him to do this, but why doesn’t Pugsley just know? Stupid cat!) Keep in mind that I never clean the litterbox—that’s Jason’s job. But don’t even get me started on him. He had the nerve that day to try and hug me. I tried to break both his arms.
The next morning, I woke up with just a teeny headache. This had been a huge concern: I’d once tried to quit drinking coffee in my early twenties when a coworker gave it up when she found out she was pregnant. I thought it would be a touching show of support and solidarity to quit with her, but after dealing with caffeine-withdrawal-induced head pounding, I decided I didn’t like my coworker that much, and poured myself a huge, steaming cup of heaven. But that headache still stood out in my memory as the worst ten minutes of my life. So just having a mild ache on the second day of “Operation Reduce the Joyfulness in My Life” was a huge win. So far, so good!
The house was silent when I shuffled downstairs. Apparently, Jason had taken the cats with him on an all-day trip to the gym. That was weird, I guess. But probably a blessing, because SOMEONE HAD LEFT A BOX OF KLEENEX IN THE LIVING ROOM AND IT SURE WASN’T ME, BECAUSE I KNOW DARN WELL THAT KLEENEX DOES NOT BELONG IN THE LIVING ROOM! I poured my first mug, my temper boiling hotter than those precious drops of caffeine. I hated everyone and everything. Except that wonderful, wonderful coffee.
It was a quiet day. I called my sister and my mother to complain about how obnoxious a shade of blue the sky was that day. Both had to get off the phone quickly and didn’t pick up when I called back. I guess they were busy. I texted my editing partner to gripe about how ridiculously inconsistent the English language is. I suggested that we dig up the grave of Lindley Murray (largely cited as the father of English grammar) and punch his corpse in the face. And how “Lindley” a stupid name. My partner stopped responding. He was probably busy, too.
Jason came home around nine p.m., which was good, because I had such a bone to pick with him. Someone had put the toilet paper on the roll the wrong way and IT SURE WASN’T ME BECAUSE I NEVER CHANGE THE TOILET PAPER, YOU INCONSIDERATE BOOB! He immediately left again. Coward.
The “holy crap, is my skull bleeding?” headache came the next morning. I spent the day cursing God, yelling at New England for being cold, and texting someone I’d gone to high school with and hadn’t spoken to since, just to tell her she’d been mean twenty-five years ago. All of this activity must’ve worn me out, because I slept like a baby that night.
I took this as a good sign. Maybe I could reduce my caffeine intake even more. Surprisingly, my family, friends, and that mean girl from high school all argued against this. Cutting back from eight to three mugs was enough, they assured me. I’d already achieved so much. Why ruin that record?
They had a point. I had managed to chop my coffee consumption by more than half, and although you probably can’t tell from this blog entry, it really wasn’t easy. Maybe I could just live my life as a three-mug-a-dayer.
Maybe four mugs. We’ll see.
Coffee has been in my life for as long as I can remember. I come from a long line of women fueled solely by caffeine. My maternal grandmother served in the Women’s Army Corps in World War II, and in our family, it is understood that though her love of country may have spurred her to enlist, it was Grandma’s love of coffee that kept her strong during those harrowing days. My mother taught seventh-grade students for many, many years, and no doubt it was those morning infusions of caffeine that kept her sane and those children alive. So I am well aware of the magical properties of the dark-roasted bean, and have upheld my end of our family tradition, pouring my first cup of java as soon as I get up, then switching to decaf in the afternoon once my hands start their caffeine-induced jangling, indicating I’ve had enough for the day.
Recently, however, I’ve had to reevaluate my intake for health reasons. Coffee can aggravate a condition I’m still dealing with, and though I’ve pretended I never read this little fact, therefore it doesn’t exist, it’s gotten to the point where I can ignore it no longer. I decided perhaps I should maybe track how much coffee I drink every day.
Eight cups. And I use the term “cups” loosely—“mugs” would be much, much more accurate. I easily polish off a pot of coffee a day. Uh-oh. I might have a problem.
Some people out there would probably just quit coffee cold turkey. I, however, am not a quitter. Coffee has been part of my daily dietary intake since my early teenage years. A life without it would be as bleak and depressing as that made-for-TV movie from the eighties--The Day After, I think it was called—which was about nuclear war but could just have easily been about life without coffee. Only in my tragedy, a young Steve Guttenberg was not going to run after me with a full steaming cup of espresso and tell me everything would be okay. So quitting cold turkey was not an option. Cutting back, though . . . that, I could do.
My plan: reduce my coffee intake to three cups (okay, okay, mugs) a day. If the benefits (sleeping better, fewer digestive issues) outweighed the detriments (irritation, headaches, murderous intent), I’d try to reduce it to two, then one cu—mug—a day.
I was feeling optimistic at the start. Who doesn’t want to sleep better? Or maybe not have their eyeballs jitter right out of their skull? I felt smug and self-righteous that first morning.
That first afternoon, I was stomping around the house, yelling at the cat for using the litter box instead of the toilet. (Granted, I’ve never trained him to do this, but why doesn’t Pugsley just know? Stupid cat!) Keep in mind that I never clean the litterbox—that’s Jason’s job. But don’t even get me started on him. He had the nerve that day to try and hug me. I tried to break both his arms.
The next morning, I woke up with just a teeny headache. This had been a huge concern: I’d once tried to quit drinking coffee in my early twenties when a coworker gave it up when she found out she was pregnant. I thought it would be a touching show of support and solidarity to quit with her, but after dealing with caffeine-withdrawal-induced head pounding, I decided I didn’t like my coworker that much, and poured myself a huge, steaming cup of heaven. But that headache still stood out in my memory as the worst ten minutes of my life. So just having a mild ache on the second day of “Operation Reduce the Joyfulness in My Life” was a huge win. So far, so good!
The house was silent when I shuffled downstairs. Apparently, Jason had taken the cats with him on an all-day trip to the gym. That was weird, I guess. But probably a blessing, because SOMEONE HAD LEFT A BOX OF KLEENEX IN THE LIVING ROOM AND IT SURE WASN’T ME, BECAUSE I KNOW DARN WELL THAT KLEENEX DOES NOT BELONG IN THE LIVING ROOM! I poured my first mug, my temper boiling hotter than those precious drops of caffeine. I hated everyone and everything. Except that wonderful, wonderful coffee.
It was a quiet day. I called my sister and my mother to complain about how obnoxious a shade of blue the sky was that day. Both had to get off the phone quickly and didn’t pick up when I called back. I guess they were busy. I texted my editing partner to gripe about how ridiculously inconsistent the English language is. I suggested that we dig up the grave of Lindley Murray (largely cited as the father of English grammar) and punch his corpse in the face. And how “Lindley” a stupid name. My partner stopped responding. He was probably busy, too.
Jason came home around nine p.m., which was good, because I had such a bone to pick with him. Someone had put the toilet paper on the roll the wrong way and IT SURE WASN’T ME BECAUSE I NEVER CHANGE THE TOILET PAPER, YOU INCONSIDERATE BOOB! He immediately left again. Coward.
The “holy crap, is my skull bleeding?” headache came the next morning. I spent the day cursing God, yelling at New England for being cold, and texting someone I’d gone to high school with and hadn’t spoken to since, just to tell her she’d been mean twenty-five years ago. All of this activity must’ve worn me out, because I slept like a baby that night.
I took this as a good sign. Maybe I could reduce my caffeine intake even more. Surprisingly, my family, friends, and that mean girl from high school all argued against this. Cutting back from eight to three mugs was enough, they assured me. I’d already achieved so much. Why ruin that record?
They had a point. I had managed to chop my coffee consumption by more than half, and although you probably can’t tell from this blog entry, it really wasn’t easy. Maybe I could just live my life as a three-mug-a-dayer.
Maybe four mugs. We’ll see.
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