I feel that I should be honest here from the start: I am not a coffee drinker by nature. That may not seem like an overly personal confession to make, but I have discovered that in America, saying you don’t drink coffee … well, it’s pretty much blasphemy.
In fact, I’m fairly sure women used to be burned at the stake for less.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love the smell of brewing coffee, I enjoy coffee flavored ice cream and I never turn down a slice of coffee cake. (Does that count? I feel like that should totally count.)
But, other than the occasional Jamocha shake from Arby’s, I’ve always steered clear — not because of any real aversion to the beverage, I just think the last thing I need is another vice. Even a socially acceptable one.
Come to think of it, I don’t even own a coffee table. (Pointy corners, little kids — you get it.) But while I know there are millions of Americans out there who wouldn’t dream of starting their day without it, alas, I’ve never been one of you.
For a bit of background, my normal morning routine typically involves two kids waking me up earlier than I would prefer, fumbling around for my glasses, changing diapers, filling up juice cups and turning on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse to distract them long enough so I can sneak outside for a cigarette before microwaving a couple of bowls of strawberry flavored instant oatmeal.
Yes, I smoke. Shut up.
My husband does drink coffee so I try to get a pot going before heading outside but honestly, I forget more often than I remember.
But on Saturday, all that changed …
Usually, when I come inside I pour myself a big glass of orange juice to sip on while making the kids’ breakfast but on this particular day, we were out. On a whim (and because I happened to remember to make it) I poured myself a cup of Joe instead.
I added milk and sugar — not out of any real preference, that’s just how my mom makes her’s — and took a deep drink. Before I knew it, my mug was empty and I was pouring a second cup.
It was delicious.
And then a weird thing happened: I was up.
I don’t mean “up” as in out of bed. I mean refreshed, alert and ready to take on the day. Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.? On a Saturday?!?
Before I knew it, my kids and I were bathed and dressed and instead of instant oatmeal I was frying up a full-on, sit-down-at-the-table breakfast complete with eggs, sausage, biscuits, pancakes and hash browns.
When breakfast was finished, I washed the dishes, threw a load of laundry in the washer and vacuumed the entire house.
Baby, I was on a roll.
At this point, my husband began casting worried glances in my direction because the last time he saw me being this energetic about housework I was pregnant and “nesting.” I assured him that wasn’t the case and went about my mad cleaning frenzy, blasting music through my head phones and dancing with the feather duster to Bruno Mars and Gnarls Barkley.
By the time lunch rolled around, my house was spotless, all my errands had been run and I was in the middle of some kind of weird baking obsession.
Two dozen cupcakes, a lemon meringue pie and a couple of loaves of zucchini bread later, I finally stopped — not because my energy level had dropped, I was simply out of eggs.
The crash I had been waiting for never came. I just slowly relaxed into early evening and was able to appreciate the fruits of a thoroughly productive day.
Looking back, I’m still not sure if it was the coffee itself that kicked off the day or if was some kind of placebo effect. After all, I’m no stranger to caffeine — I practically mainline Diet Pepsi.
Perhaps I just had a good night’s sleep? Maybe the stars aligned to bolster my chakras? I don’t know. It could be I just had a good day. Surely the universe allows those to randomly happen every once in a while?
Either way, as much as I enjoyed it, I didn’t try to repeat the experience on Sunday.
Mainly because I was still out of eggs (not to mention storage space) for baked goods but also because my husband would never believe I wasn’t nesting if I went all “Donna Reed” on him two days in a row.
He’d think it was twins.
Kasie Strickland is a staff writer for The Sentinel-Progress and can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. Views expressed in this column are those of the writer only and do not necessarily represent the newspaper’s opinion.