My mother started my addiction. I woke to each morning as a child to the aroma of coffee. Coffee my mother made. It seeped into my bedroom tickled my nose and insisted I get up. It was more persuasive than any alarm clock could be. Coffee wiggled into my brain, pulled my lethargic body from the bed and reeled me into the kitchen. The food on the table was inconsequential, rendered unpalatable by the intoxicating allure of coffee. Mornings and coffee are so entwined in my conscience there is no way to separate them.
It wasn’t until I entered high school that my total indoctrination began. A full schedule of social engagements, extracurricular activities, and work meant I started homework late in the evening. Coffee came to my rescue, allowing me to compete with my peers and excel. The trend continued into college.
Then the doctors published articles stating coffee was bad for you. The cited increased blood pressure, insomnia, incontinence, indigestion, and headaches. How appalling. They couldn’t be speaking about my beloved coffee. So, I turned my back on it, cold turkey.
The biggest surprise was that I didn’t suffer from the withdrawal systems they warned me about. Zip, zilch, nada. But I listened to the reports, denying my desire until it faded into nothingness. Years passed, and my life remained free of coffee; a life that was a little less full, a little less aromatic, devoid of a morning ritual. The pendulum swung, they conducted new studies and published new reports. Now they extolled the beneficial properties of coffee. I was flabbergasted; I was duped, bamboozled, hoodwinked into a course of action based on what amounted to a defamation of the good character of my beloved coffee.
We have reunited me and my morning cup of Joe. A ritual I will never again break.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer