I recently quit drinking coffee.
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| A favorite coffee mug, gift from my husband. |
It
took me months. I did it slowly to avoid withdrawal symptoms: hangover-like
headache, fatigue, mental fogginess, the strong drive to kill the people around
me.
Following
advice I had read in a magazine article, I slowly worked my way down, one step at a
time, from venti to grande to tall, from two a day to one, then made with
three-quarters caffeinated, one quarter decaf, then half and half (I discovered
you can order this at a coffee bar), then to one-quarter caffeinated, three-quarters
decaf, then finally to all decaf.
My husband pronounced this whole process “bonkers.”
“Hush,” I said.
I
was doing this because of an upcoming trip. Long flights. Jet lag. I didn’t
know if there would be coffee where we were going. I didn’t want to miss out on
anything, and I didn’t want to be a grumpy travel companion. Plus, I figured,
if I ever needed a boost, I could administer a jolt of caffeine to my decaffeinated
self and it would have an effect.
This
all worked. I had no withdrawal symptoms, though my husband declared my last
coffee order, “One small nonfat decaf latte,” to be the saddest one he’d ever
heard. I was suddenly able to bound out of bed, into the shower, into clothes, and
out the door early in the morning, something that seemed crazy to me before. I
didn’t miss out on anything, and I was, I hope, a cheerful travel companion.
But
before I even felt the need, I was drinking coffee on the trip. They did,
indeed, have it there. They even had an espresso machine. And we were able to introduce
the bartender to the concept of iced latte.
And so, I'm back where I started.
