Today my proverbial java-filled bubble was burst.
I left treatment with the lip-smacking, revitalized conviction to resume my delicious coffee habit, complete with dreams of dark roasted, espresso laden, caffeinated goodness. So this morning, I relished in a cup (or two) of my intention. Absolutelyfuckingdelicious. Heaven sent nectar of the gods (may be pushing it but you get the idea). I greeted the busy day refreshed, hopeful, caffeinated.
My gratitude was immeasurable as I have not been sleeping well on the prednisone and my day was literally jammed with follow-up appointments. Not to mention that it is my ONLY remaining vice, as I have decided to abstain from drinking, smoking, not to mention taking up eating and "feelings." Just the boost and glue that I needed to make it through day #1.
This all came to a screeching halt around 10:30 on Friday morning. My doctor, whom I love, asked the question loaded, cocked and ready, the Colt 44 pointed at my gut, "Are you drinking coffee?" Since I love her and I have also given up lying as a vice, I meekly answered, "yes."
"I don't think that is on your meal plan, or the best idea, you better stick to decaf."
So the balloon of hope, empowerment and revitalization was untied, sent shooting around the sterile office spraying my espresso-filled aspirations all over the walls and floor of the 8x8 exam room. Though my face dropped I showed no sign of struggle, merely relinquished power, watching the my dark-roasted dreams slip slowly down the walls into an evaporating puddle on the floor, drying quickly, leaving only stains of defeat. "Okay," I managed to stammer after a minute, what's one more unrequited passion.
So we continued on the rest of the day, still upbeat and high from my gift of my "last temptation," acquiring some imitation gold on our journey home after a long day. My new wanderlust. Decaf coffee. Yum. Just keep saying it. By the time we got home I had radically accepted this new way of living, though still pining and reveling in that last day of caffeine. Tomorrow to start anew. Letting go.
The next morning a large guffaw echoed from the kitchen as Clay prepared the morning coffee. Barely able to catch his breath, Clay came into the kitchen holding a coffee can, baring a striking resemblance to the new canister, just purchased the evening before. We had been drinking decaf all along. Figures, son of a biscuit.
I left treatment with the lip-smacking, revitalized conviction to resume my delicious coffee habit, complete with dreams of dark roasted, espresso laden, caffeinated goodness. So this morning, I relished in a cup (or two) of my intention. Absolutelyfuckingdelicious. Heaven sent nectar of the gods (may be pushing it but you get the idea). I greeted the busy day refreshed, hopeful, caffeinated.
My gratitude was immeasurable as I have not been sleeping well on the prednisone and my day was literally jammed with follow-up appointments. Not to mention that it is my ONLY remaining vice, as I have decided to abstain from drinking, smoking, not to mention taking up eating and "feelings." Just the boost and glue that I needed to make it through day #1.
This all came to a screeching halt around 10:30 on Friday morning. My doctor, whom I love, asked the question loaded, cocked and ready, the Colt 44 pointed at my gut, "Are you drinking coffee?" Since I love her and I have also given up lying as a vice, I meekly answered, "yes."
"I don't think that is on your meal plan, or the best idea, you better stick to decaf."
So the balloon of hope, empowerment and revitalization was untied, sent shooting around the sterile office spraying my espresso-filled aspirations all over the walls and floor of the 8x8 exam room. Though my face dropped I showed no sign of struggle, merely relinquished power, watching the my dark-roasted dreams slip slowly down the walls into an evaporating puddle on the floor, drying quickly, leaving only stains of defeat. "Okay," I managed to stammer after a minute, what's one more unrequited passion.
So we continued on the rest of the day, still upbeat and high from my gift of my "last temptation," acquiring some imitation gold on our journey home after a long day. My new wanderlust. Decaf coffee. Yum. Just keep saying it. By the time we got home I had radically accepted this new way of living, though still pining and reveling in that last day of caffeine. Tomorrow to start anew. Letting go.
The next morning a large guffaw echoed from the kitchen as Clay prepared the morning coffee. Barely able to catch his breath, Clay came into the kitchen holding a coffee can, baring a striking resemblance to the new canister, just purchased the evening before. We had been drinking decaf all along. Figures, son of a biscuit.
No comments:
Post a Comment