I have a confession to make. You may already be aware that I gave up coffee back in June. Wow. Has it been that long? I did it for health reasons, and it wasn’t easy. Two days ago, I fell off the wagon. I have found that there is no more effective treatment for injuries sustained when falling from a moving vehicle than a pot of coffee. So I made one. And a few hours later, I made another. In my defense, I didn’t drink it all, but the idea that I could was empowering.
I am trying to maintain a casual relationship with coffee this time around. We can hang sometimes, but I’m not going all co-dependent. No more sitting around the pot and waiting for it to brew or planning my every waking moment around our relationship. It helps that there are fewer actual walking moments now that I’m limiting my intake.
In keeping with my good intentions, this morning I chose not to make a full pot. I reasoned that if there was nothing left for me, it just wasn’t wasn’t meant to be. And my husband drank it all.
And now I hate him a little. It’s no biggie. I can cope. Sweet husband needed the caffeine kick to start his day. I understand. I mean, it’s not like I birthed his children or bought him tickets to see Eric Clapton. Twice. It’s cool. I’ll get by. It’s not like Edward was getting lonely and questioning his purpose in life. It’s all good.
It could be that I stayed up a bit too late last night watching the most terrible movie of the year, but I never realized how difficult it is to muster the motivation to pour water over beans without first being caffeinated. But I’ll get by. It’s laundry time now, friends.
Anybody know what starch does to boxer shorts?