To admit to needing a crutch to deal with life is not a course of conduct many of us traverse with ease. I have to confess, that on many occasions I have responded to a concerned inquiry with, "No, I'm not addicted. I just really enjoy coffee." I'm a liar. I now have substantial and compelling evidence that I'm an addict.
Around December 15, Marty and I stopped drinking coffee in the midst of our violent stomach virus. Evidently, coffee and viruses in the stomach together are not good companions.
As our sickness abated, we realized that we had already gone caffeine-less for several days. "Why not just a few more days and try life without caffeine," was our thought.
Today, the day after staying up with America's favorite pop stars to watch the New Year come in, Marty and I agreed to grind 22 caffeinated beans with the "less desirable" beans for our morning espresso. Usually, I've been taking 2 ibuprofin with my decaf espresso. (Maybe a new specialty drink at Starbucks called the Decaf Depth Charge.)
I've thought about coffee almost every minute of the last 16 days. A friend of ours went of coffee for four months and said, "I never didn't want it." I understand that desire. I live that desire. I wander around the kitchen in the morning with little purpose - there's no warm mug to hug and so no reason to sit and contemplate the day ahead. Actually, that's not true. We still brew decaf every morning, but most mornings I think, "What's the point of drinking this?"
In the afternoons, to replace my afternoon espresso, I've resorted to several candy bars to diminish the depression.
At the rate we're going, I think it's safe to say that we'll be free from our caffeine addiction by the time we retire.