DeLoreans, Addiction, and Caffeinated Confessionals

September 1.

The date has been staring back at me from a post-it for the last 6 weeks.

It's D-Day: The day I'd cut out caffeine.

Or maybe Independence Day: The day I free myself from the clutches of caffeine.

I've done it before. I've done it to show myself I don't need it, to win a bet, to save money. (Lattes aren't cheap. Almond milk lattes are worse.) This time, it's a combination of all those things--it's the latest in a string of items being eliminated from my diet, following wheat and dairy. Instead of ditching everything at once, I spread out the detox, lest my head start spinning like that chick in The Exorcist. I wish I had some noble reason, like I saving the planet. Or that I'm doing it for love. Or that it's all to get more well-defined calves. But really, it just goes back to the thyroid. Yawn. Still though. It's the end of something convoluted, but beautiful.

How did I even get into coffee anyway? As a child, I had been traumatized by a case of mistaken mug identity. Reaching for what I thought was my mug of deliciously smooth hot chocolate, I instead gulped the bitter dregs of my father's morning coffee. I still remember my senses reeling. My entire body rebelled against the coffee. The best part of waking up was most definitely not Folger's--or any type of coffee--in your cup.

Many years later, latte in hand, I was cleaning out my nightstand and I found a list of things detailing what I was looking for in a husband. (I was a very marriage minded nine-year-old.) In addition to this man looking like Jonathan Taylor Thomas and liking horses, there was this note in all caps: "HE CAN ABSOLUTELY NOT DRINK COFFEE." Clearly, the case of mistaken mug identity left its scar across my psyche--so much in fact that I refused to marry a coffee drinker. Staring at the childhood scrawl, I got a good laugh and took a searing sip from my latte. If that was still a requirement, I'd have some explaining to do, starting with my daily dose of caffeine. You see, somewhere between my high school graduation and status as a first-year college student, I got hooked on coffee. An innocent trip to Barnes and Noble with a friend. A mocha coconut frappucino from the Starbucks inside said Barnes and Noble. And that was it. I was done for. Sucked in by the seduction of the coffee cult. Within the year, three new Starbucks stores and one Caribou Coffee opened in my area, making it oh-so-easy to fuel the addiction. I don't want to think about the time, money, and calories wasted on espresso-laden goodness.

Besides...it was more than coffee. It wasn't just a drink. It was a ritual. It was waking up on a crisp fall morning, eyes burning from lack of sleep, and hurrying to the closest Starbucks for a hit. I'd even leave the house without makeup for that stuff. While I did a semester at community college, all my friends left for university and I was alone. But you know who was there? Coffee was there. I was alone, but coffee loved me. And I loved coffee. It stands to reason that because I don't drink soda, I was allowed coffee. I deserved coffee. As someone with a complicated relationship with food, it was so convenient to meet people for coffee instead of lunch. And the smell...I could sit and breathe that scent all day long. Even now, closing my eyes, I am back in the family's 1998 Toyota Corolla, cradling a grande white mocha between classes, steeling myself for the blustery walk to the building. That goodness in a cup was maybe not as cool as a time-traveling DeLorean, but almost. 

I require 1.21 gigawatts-worth of caffeine to start the day, please.

In the beginning, before I became an "experienced" user, I lived on white mochas. Skim, no whip. Obviously, removal of those two things counteracted the bazillion remaining calories from the flavoring, but let's not go there. When I left home for the next semester, the addiction got worse. I didn't have a car, but that was okay because I could walk twenty feet and get delicious, caffeinated goodness at good ole Wilbur's Coffeehouse. I went to a dry campus, so Wilbur's was where all the action happened. Whatever, just get out of my way and get me coffee. I'd brave frigid temps to cross campus during a class break to get my fix. Because whatever was in that cup fixed just about everything. (Examples below.)

Stressed about that paper for Brit Lit and that crazy anti-government, ex-wife-hating professor who magically turned Brit Lit into Scottish Literature and expects you to speak Gaelic?

Go get a coffee.

Sad because you didn't see that cute backwards-hat-wearing, flannel-sporting, country-music-loving baseball player after chapel?

Go get a coffee.

Happy because that cute backwards-hat-wearing, flannel-sporting, country-music-loving baseball player smiled at you after chapel?

Go get a coffee.

Whatever the question was, coffee was the answer. Whether you needed to cope, mope, or celebrate, anything was manageable with a shot of espresso.

I'd say the addiction peaked when I was living in DC. The combination of stress from my internship mixed with the Starbucks accessibility was too much to say no to. I'd walk the eight blocks to the Metro station, which was conveniently flanked by a Starbucks. Say good morning to white mocha numero uno of the day! I'd kind of halfheartedly smuggle my grande onto the train, but really...who's going to stand up to a petite brunette with murder in her eyes? (The murder part disappears after the first cup of coffee.) Forty-five minutes later, I'd arrive at the Rosslyn Metro stop and head up the wind tunnel escalators to street level. Two blocks to the office, and what's that at the midway point? Another Starbucks. Ever the over-worked intern, I'd take a break from researching human trafficking cases on LexisNexis and head down to Starbucks. White mocha dos, take me away! On the very worst days, there was Starbucks. Waiting just for me. Its light spilling onto the sidewalk, calling like a beacon of hope. White mocha tres, take me home tonight.

I don't wanna let you go. Ever.

Over the years, I've given up a lot of things. Chocolate. Cookies. Cake. But I couldn't let go of coffee. Coffee had been with me through thick and thin. Good hair days and bad hair days. Skinny jeans and...not-so-skinny jeans. It was breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner. It was my afternoon pick-me-up and trusted shopping companion. I could smuggle it into movie theaters, and no road trip was complete without it. After living in DC, I recognized I maybe had a slight coffee problem. So I moved away from white mochas, flirting with caramel macchiatos, caramel lattes, and of course the classic grande latte, complete with two raw sugars. It was...purer. What Italians originally intended for espresso, though...much larger than intended. The giant latte...it was the latte perfected. 16 ounces is what it should be. Except on the days when you needed 20 ounces. Just--trust me. I'm Italian--I can make this call.

I was always a little sad when a friend suggested meeting over an actual meal. Couldn't we just meet for coffee? I mean...who needs food? Why chew when you can savor that hint of sweet bitterness laced with sugar? Don't even get me started on a good flat white.

But alas. It seems far past time this ship sails away. And so I say goodbye, espresso. Goodbye to a delicious friend and timeless accessory--you were my strength. You gave me the confidence to leave my house without makeup and showed me how to be independent. I am no longer afraid of traveling alone, and somehow, I think I owe it all to you. We had a good run and we will always have our memories. But I've got some bad news. If we were...oh...let's say on a ship that I don't know...ran into an iceberg...and...your name was "Jack"...

I'm letting go.

And...I hope my heart will go on.