| I think I may be British |
[Jul. 13th, 2004|02:55 pm] |
Ok, so, I might have a problem. Not so much of a problem, really, but more
of a habit. I trace the origins way back to the scattered memories of my
childhood. Ever since I can remember, I've had stomach problems, going back
to when I was like 10 or so. It started as a completely random occurance,
every once in a while I would suddenly feel violently ill and nauseous. Any
attempts to rectify this situation that didn't include either Pepto-Bismol
or me being prostrated on a couch or bed were in vain. And even sometimes
those didn't help either. This went on for another 5 years or so, always
seeming to strike at indecipherable frequencies and intensities. I tracked
eating habits, foods, and etc. all to no avail. My parents, and thus by
association I as well, began to shift the blame to stress and/or stress
related incidents. You see, I was a pretty tightly wound kid, even then. The
attacks, as I fondly referred to them in the friendly confines of the dinner
table conversation, grew increasingly worse and more frequent as I entered
high school. This seemed to bolster the notion that they were related to me
being a nervous wreck all the time, so I continued to think nothing of it.
Despite several protests from the 'rents, I neglected to seek medical
attention for my condition. For some reason, I've always had this prenatural
aversion to doctors. Which is kinda weird, being that my doctor was a close
personal friend of the family. Maybe it has something to do with the whole
"ignorance is bliss" theory to which I've always subscribed. (You know, if I
don't consciously know something is seriously wrong, then on some level it
doesn't exist.) Either way, things kept getting progressively worse.
I started drinking coffee pretty early on in life. Some of my earliest and
fondest memories of coffee were sitting in the car with my mom, after she
has gone to the gym, driving home after stopping at Dunkin Donuts. Being the
oldest and all, I had permanently commandeered the front seat thus
relegating me to hold her large black coffee. Always one to act a little
more mature for my age, I was curious to see what this whole coffee thing
was about. So, I took furtive sips of the scalding hot goodness (this was
before the whole McDonalds hot coffee scandal thing) and have been pretty
much addicted ever since. This was, I'm guessing, when I was about 10 or 11.
From there my coffee habits grew into sharing cups of it with my mom (never
my dad, he tainted it with milk and sweet 'n' low...I liked the straight up
variety) to finally graduating to cups of my own. Not to long afterwards, I
was sucking down cappuccinos and espressos (being half Italian and all, it's
some strange rite of passage. You know other cultures have their own coming
of age things, but you knew you've made it into adulthood when you were
allowed to order an espresso after dinner) with the best of them. Yet,
something horrible started happening. It started as a cycle, really. Crave
coffee. Drink coffee. Get sick. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. However, I was
extremely reluctant to give up the stuff. I mean, after all, to this day
there is nothing that compares to a great cup of coffee. Yet, after too many
nights curled over in pain, I set a self-imposed exile from coffee. This was
8th grade. I was thirteen and like all other adolescents I had developed an
ulcer.
However, I continued to avoid doctors like the plague and occasionally
sneaking cups in and regretting it later. One time I went 3 years without
breaking down and giving in. And for a self proclaimed coffee junkie, I
think that's pretty impressive. Here was my problem. For some strange
reason, I have the uncanny ability to do my best writing when all wired on
caffeine. I was like the teenage version of Jack Kerouac, trading benezene
for caffeine. Luckily enough, I managed to squeak through high school with
one or two papers a year. Unfortunatly, it all changed once I got to college.
Sometimes, faced with 2 or 3 papers a week, I went searching for an
alternative. For the better part of my freshman year, I would drink half of
a case of Mountain Dew and one or two large hot teas (there was a Starbucks
next door to my dorm. God I miss that.) and they would seem to do the trick.
Yet, I never really caught onto the whole tea thing. I still craved that
bitter bitter sweetness of coffee.
Finally, after my freshman year while I was home working for the summer
(ironically enough at the same place I am now) my dad convinced me to
finally see a doctor for my stomach because it got to the point where I
wasn't able to eat anything without regretting it later. I got some wonder
drug like Prevacid or Nexium or whatever, diagnosed with acid reflux, and
being that I couldn't swallow pills I would instead take a daily dose of
drug infused chocolate pudding. I was on that for about a year when I
finally got up the nerve to try coffee again. You know those parts in
movies, where two lovers/best friends/family members are reunited after a
long time? With the slow motion, the sappy music, and the long extended
hugs? Well, let me tell you, that's exactly what it was like being back on
coffee. I would look forward to writing papers, giving myself excuses to down
a whole pot and not think twice. Things were going great for a while, about
two years to be exact, when something strange started happening. I'm talking
not talking about like Stephen King psycho-killer clown strange. I'm talking
like eerie strange. It all started when I first started working here a few
weeks ago. Accepting the job meant early mornings, and with the early
mornings and all I figured that I had the opportunity to have one of those
daily cups of coffee I had heard so much about. You know, the somewhat
middle aged people groaning about how they truly aren't awake until they get
their daily fix. These we people I emulated, strived to be like. And I was
going to be one of them. Or so I thought.
This brings me to my problem. I no longer have any desire to drink coffee.
None. Whatsoever. For the first week or two I dutifully poured my cup,
shuffled over to my desk, and began my day like I had thought everyone did.
Lunch would eventually roll around, and to my surprise I would discover that
I had only drank a few sips, maybe half of the cup on a particularly early
day. I had no idea what was going on. Then, almost as if I was possessed or
something, I found myself pouring cup after cup after cup of boiling water
into my mug, and scrounging the office for every pouch of Earle Grey tea I
could get my hands on. Much like the former coffee addiction started, I
began with a cup here or a travel mug there. But soon I would be taking
repeated (and alternate) trips to the tea service station and the bathroom.
At the time I'm writing this, I've already downed 6 cups and I'm currently
working on a 7th. And it's only 2pm. By the time the summer ends, I should
be averaging a healthy 12 per day.
Which leads me to believe there are only a few things causing such peculiar
behavior. Either I'm possessed by some crazy, pekoe loving poltergeist or
I'm slowly becoming British. And going along with my somewhat founded belief
that the afterlife does exist, I'm forced to believe it's the latter. And
while London tops my list of "Places I would love to live in the next 10
years" and that I was at one point an avid Beatles fan, I'm not looking
forward to the inclination towards warm beer, bad food and rain. And you
already know how I feel about rain.
So, I guess that just leaves me here, sitting back, sipping coffee's more
refined cousin, contemplating how I'm going to explain to my parents that
they are going to have to ship my Yankee butt across the pond.
Cheerio! |
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