Here is My Confession: I Am a Certifiable Coffee Addict

I know, I know...I'm sighing.

It is hard for one to admit something of this nature. It is confirmation of a weakness; a crippling of your idea that you're of a sound, un-wavering mind. It is an overt exploitation of being less than perfect; a realization that you are delicate. You brand yourself for the world to see. And yet, I confess.

It is because of all the coffee I consume, that I say this.

It doesn't matter where I am in the world, I can usually be spotted with a predominantly white styrofoam coffee cup in my hand. At first, it began with a medium sized cup, the most popular of all sizes; the size that allows a person to walk with the norm and bring no curious attention to oneself. It was a happy way of being; a content way, sifting and weaving among the other medium cuppers with ease and pride. Life was good.

But the medium size soon became too small, it was no longer enough. I found myself enjoying my cuppa immensely, smiling like a smitten teenager throughout the beverage consuming process, oblivious to how silly my expression must have seemed to those lucky enough to witness it. And I drank. Smitten smile, gulp. Smile; gulp. Then, and seemingly without warning, my cup was far lighter than it had begun. I got desperate. Double tipping of the cup occurred. You know, that movement to coax the last poky drop that might be lingering at the bottom, relying on gravity to help you out; but nothing. My lower lip quivered into a split-second pout. I tipped again, this time giving the styrofoam a simultaneous gentle squeeze and shake to move any rogue droplets along; still nothing. Giving into defeat, (slightly dramatic at that), I set the cup down. It made a hallow thud. A worried frown encapsulated my face. Now what was I to do? This was a sad moment for sure. I yearned for more. I knew something had to be done to avoid this from happening again for it was far too painful of an event to endure.

I remember the day I stood at that colorful mauve and orange counter, anxiously recapping my order in my mind one last time. I knew what I had to do. I had rehearsed and prepared myself for this event for the length of drive from home to brew.

A counter server, donned with a smile and a black brand name visor approached. That visor was waging war, all laden with delicious product buttons screaming subliminal messages at me about how tasty the coffee was. She asked me, 'What can I get you?'

I panicked. I didn't know what to do. I knew there was an extending line of people growing by the second behind me, watching me, listening to my wishes, mentally critiquing my order and casting, without a doubt, judgment on me. Could I walk past them with my head held high if I followed through? But the sweet, waft of air smelling of fresh ground coffee hit me; uncontrollable salivation began. It took over my rational thinking. I could have even trembled, but I'm not sure. I swallowed.

'Can I have a large coffee, regular, please?'

I did it. I showed the world that I can no longer walk with the norm, that a medium cup was just not enough. I've slid into the hidden life of an addict. I was ashamed, mortified at myself. How will I emotionally manage this as I pass all these medium cuppers to get to my car? I was wretched; a victim of my own needs. That was the day of revelation. When the visor sporting server returned with my fresh, scrumptious coffee and set it before me, I threw down my money, took the coffee, and with bowed head, waded through the crowd of judgment casting eyes.

I ran off with my coffee and drank. And I drank. And that smitten smile returned. I drank some more. And alas, my cup emptied. I was sated. I sat with empty cup in hand, reflecting on the comfort and ease that flowed through me, my fix fixed me. And then, another ponderous revelation, I drank a large! The guilt swarmed my head like a thousand angry worker bees. How could I face anyone? The guilt wore on my face like a painted arrow just pointing at me and my horror (metaphorical painted arrows are supreme in exploiting anything, kind of like neon lights). I was lost in my own shame, dog-low in my self worth. I sat motionless, near breathless, just waiting for the guilt gremlins to carry me off to the island of guilt and shame; until I saw another large cupper amongst a crowd of mediums, and he was un-shamed. Carrying on like he was no different than any other cuppa consumers. I thought maybe, just maybe I won't need addiction therapy after all. This other large cupper instantly became my hero and my inspiration. I picked myself up and ventured back into my world. Nobody looked at me strangely. Nobody pointed a judgmental eye my way. I would survive this. And survive I have.

But I still have a confession. I am an addict for sure.