At noon today I was dragging. I don’t mean I was just feeling like sitting down, I mean I was feeling like falling into bed and taking a nap. It was largely inexplicable considering the Cheesedoodle had allowed me to sleep more hours (both cumulative and consecutive) than I have since before he was born, by falling asleep early, sleeping soundly and sleeping in. It was bliss. I should have had more energy today than any day in the last four years or so.
But I didn’t. I just didn’t.
At lunch Jonathan looked at the french press sitting on the counter and said, in extreme surprise, “You didn’t drink your coffee this morning?” Indeed, I hadn’t. We had been in a hurry to go grocery shopping and I had run out the door without my fix. Sure enough, a cup and a half later and I’m a different woman! I feel motivated. I can focus on the task at hand. I feel like life is worth living. I’m tackling my “to-do” list.
This has me pondering my statements to various women that caffeine just doesn’t affect me any more. It would appear that I have become so dependent on my morning coffee that I require it to achieve normal. It doesn’t keep me awake, it keeps me running. Caffeine does indeed affect me. In fact, it might be time for an intervention.