It's no secret that I'm a coffee addict. I might as well have JAVAGAL on my license plate. For one week I went down to five cups of coffee a day from my usual twelve. Today was the day that I gave in and went back to the bean. I have it all the time. Some people drink water. I drink coffee.
Let's put it this way. I have little vices. I don't drink. While some people may relax with a glass of wine at night after a long day, I turn to a cup o' joe. Aha! I know what you're saying! I'm an addict! And yes, I probably am. But I figure there are worse things I could be doing.
The other day I was walking through the hall and a co-worker remarked, "I don't recognize you without your coffee mug." I guess it's become part of my personality. I didn't like coffee growing up. I have memories of my mother making her first cup in the morning, and my stomach turning from the smell. I could hardly keep breakfast down.
Who gave me my first cup of coffee? It was actually my ex-husband, during my first all-nighter in college. Staying up late to complete a bio lab, or rather procrastinate and goof around while pretending to do said bio lab, my ex-husband introduced me to coffee. History was made.
It wasn't until Kidlet A and B were born that the addiction came on full force. The boys didn't sleep through the night, and never napped at the same time. Pots of java were poured as I struggled to keep awake, sometimes days at a time. My lack of sleep was awful. I remember walking into a door jam one day in my stupor from days of unrest. To the coffee I relied, helping keep me awake, warm, and reliable.
The time came where I wanted to get out of the house, as the life of a stay at home mom was making me feel so solitary. Of course, I applied to Starbucks and became a barista. It was one of the best jobs I've ever had, and enjoyed thoroughly. Yes, I was wired on lattes and cappuccinos constantly to the point where I think I saw double. But I got to interact with so many different people on a daily basis. Aside from the man who ran his fingers through my hair at the register (eek!) and the woman who screamed so much over her venti iced latte having too much ice we thought we'd have to call the police, I had a good time.
Now my Starbucks days involve bringing my dad, who has the beginnings of dementia, for a coffee and sitting for awhile. I tell him about my day - full of the shenanigans of my students, what's new with the kidlets, and my hopes for the future. Yes, I still have hopes and dreams. I tell my dad all, knowing that he may forget what I say within minutes of us leaving Starbucks. But for those few minutes, I have his undivided attention and love over shared coffees. He has a grande Pike Place with room. Me? Usually a grande skinny caramel macchiato.
It's not the caffeine that gives me the rush. It's the promise of the future. As the warmth of the beverage fills me, I am motivated once more to move on. Addicted? Maybe. But I'm hooked on the excitement of today and tomorrow. That sip reminds me it will all be ok. Move forward!
