Yesterday, during a benign Facebook exchange, I discovered my sister no longer drinks caffeinated coffee. This, from a woman I recall drinking an ENTIRE POT of coffee all by her lonesome self. I hadn’t noticed she’d switched, exclusively, to decaf, despite my several personal deliveries of Dunkin which I ordered from a text message that explicitly specified DECAF in her order.
It goes without saying she got the quickness in the family and I can correctly grammartize the word motherfucker in a blog post. OUR PARENTS ARE SO PROUD.
Typically, I allow myself 2 cups of coffee a day. Less than that and I fall out of routine, which for me and my self-diagnosed ADHD-ness is what medical professionals lovingly refer to as a NO effing BUENO, SHERRY. (That’s a quote from my therapist, BTW. Hi Deb!) More than two cups and my hands shake and my heart races and the only difference between that and a typical anxiety attack is the lacking sense of massive pending horrific doom.
An aside…and revelation I JUST realized. I’ve dealt with some shit in my life, and if watching that show Intervention taught me anything, it’s that I would’ve been a perfect candidate for a serious drug problem. But! That bitch anxiety? She had my back and actually steered me wayyyy clear of ever trying any illegal substance, out of fear that the presence of even pot would kill me. Or, propel me into a life of crime. Or both. Huh. Look at me, all finding the bright spot and shit.
Back to coffee. Today? It’s not even mid-morning and I’ve had 3 cups. Because, well, life, and shit is getting realsies up in this tween wrangling piece, and while I don’t think I’m dealing with anything Earth shatteringly new, it’s all uncharted territory for us. The past few months have brought about lots of change and planning for futures and realizations and Axe Body Spray, and suffice to say, Momma is unprepared.
Hence, the 3rd cup of coffee.
While I watched this hot vessel of what I’ll surely regret in a few hours brew into my mug, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d chugged some water. Some months ago, I bought a specific shaker cup for my morning smoothies and, while at work, I’d wash it out and use it for water for the day and at the gym. Immediately, I craved that cup full of clear, liquid gold, and I pulled it out of the Designated Plastic Container Cabinet™. But, the lid was nowhere. to. be. found. SHIT.
Now, of course, a normal person, would just take the cup, sans lid, fill that shit, and get her ass to work. But, you’re not immersed in the blog of a normal woman. I needed that lid, because what if I spill! How will I drink at the gym!? It became obvious, in that moment, that I’d clearly failed as a parent, employee, daughter, sister, and human being because I COULD NOT FIND THAT BLESSED LID FOR MY SHAKER CUP. I should just give up, go back to bed, and let the kids sustain themselves on chocolate chip waffles and Spotify.
Aim high, kids!
Clearly, that 3rd cup of joe transitioned from caffeine crutch to path of destruction. This is how anxiety gets ya. She spews irrational commentary that you start to believe, because if you’re told something long enough…you know the rest. Lately, I’ve become more proficient at recognizing her bullshit, and calling her out on it. Which, I think, is why I opened the drawer to my left, under the Designated Plastic Container Cabinet™, the perfect home for plastic container accouterments.
Like, lids.
There it was.
And, just like that, in the light of my kitchen, dim from two ceiling fan bulbs having blown out, which is probably a better look for me in flannel pajamas anyway, I smiled to myself because maybe, just maybe, if I can find an appropriate home for all my water bottle lids (they were ALL in there), maybe I have the foresight to navigate all this craziness after all.
Maybe, but after just one more cup of coffee.
