And I'm listening to piano music whilst writing it. So if somewhere in the middle I start waxing poetical about love, life and laughter, please know it's not my fault. It's Paul Cardall's fault.
I didn't even know who Paul Cardall was until 2 seconds ago, and now I am almost crying to his music in the middle of a newsroom.
There are only two words adequate for this situation:
That's Embarrassing.
But it's been a weird day.
Probably because I'm hungover.
Sort of.
(Not really.)
Anyway...
Chapter 1:
Previous to turning 16, I had maybe 2 sips of caffeine. Those sips came from my aunt's Pepsi when I was somewhere around the age of 7.
This is because I was a good, church-going girl, who wanted to live the highest quality life I could, without succumbing to addictive substances like coke and marijuana.
That all changed (well, not all of it--just the coke part really) when I was 16 because I was in Costa Rica and I had to choose between water, a sketchy fruit smoothie and a bottle of coke. I like to consider this time in my life, the time I chose between 2 evils--the devilish caffeine monster and the potentially more devilish diarrhea monster. (Sorry to be crass, but I need you to understand the seriousness of this situation.)
Long story short, I chose the coke, out of necessity, and barely questioned my morals for doing so.
Chapter 2:
The next time I drank myself some caffeinated beverage was in my freshman year during the time known as the Best Buy days.
Those were good days, the Best Buy days. Never again have I felt so efficient and appreciated for doing so little.
It was the night before Thanksgiving. And I was in the blue-shirt crew that had the pleasure of organizing bins and boxes for dead day. I think I spent the whole night typing up signs on powerpoint.
And then it was 1 a.m. And I had a two hour drive toward home. It was just me, an open stretch of road, and 5,000 semi trucks.
My mom wasn't thrilled about this plan of mine, to drive home at 1 in the morning. But we worked out a plan. I'd buy a Mountain Dew from Taco Bell, and she'd stop trying to convince me to sleep another night in Tucson.
And I drank it. And I blamed it on my mom. And it tasted good. And I made it home. And I went back to my pre-costa rica days of sobriety.
UNTIL, that camping trip that I went on where I let the boys buy the food without any input from the girls.
I am usually all for letting the boys make the decisions--I find things end up less complex and less irritating that way. But in this case, I really should have diverged from my usual tendencies.
Case in point: they brought sunflower seeds for snacks, eggs, sausage and onions for breakfast, AND a case of Mountain Dew and a jug of water, with no cups in sight, to drink.
Yet again, I was caught in a catch 22. And, due to my poor planning, I had to, once again, choose between two evils--
Caffeine or Boy slobber.
I chose caffeine. Because every time I picked up that water jug, all I could think about was backwash. Backwash and mono. Backwash, mono, and spit.
Chapter 3:
I was clean for 2 years after that. Minus 3 sips of Rockstar somewhere in the middle.
Nobody's perfect, okay? The Rockstar was free. And it looked fun. And it wanted me to JUST TRY IT.
It tasted like Sweet Tarts. And I was bouncing before it even touched my digestive track. And then I quit bouncing, because I realized the caffeine hadn't even had time to sink in yet, and I was seriously over-crediting the energy-giving powers of the Rockstar.
So the next time after the Rockstar slip was last October. I was really tired, and I was about to go on a ride-a-long from 9 p.m. to 7 a.m. where I needed to be alert enough to take detailed notes that I could later turn into a compelling story about the life of a policeman.
You may remember this night, when I decided it would be a good idea to, running on about 3 and half hours of sleep for the past 2 days, drive to Phoenix at 2 in the morning.
Somewhere along that early morning drive I decided it wasn't a good idea. In fact, I decided it was a VERY bad idea, and that I hated caffeine, and that it just wasn't natural that my body felt like it should be collapsing but my mind was very awake and, what's more, alert.
I kept expecting the caffeine to wear off. And I knew once it did, my brain would be an empty shell. I figured I had used up all my brownie points, and without the caffeine the only thing keeping me from running off the road into Picacho peak, would be a potentially amazing autopilot, established from the years I spent driving home every. single. weekend.
I made it home that night. And I hated caffeine.
And I was done with it.
Chapter 4:
Then one night, 2 weeks ago, I stayed up late and had to wake up early.
--Somewhere around 1 a.m. my usually over-reactive resolve turns into a pansy.--
And that's when I decided maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to have my mind awake when the rest of my body would really prefer to slump over in the chair.
In fact, I thought this could be particularly useful as I sat through committee hearings that sometimes cause me to nod off when I've gotten 10 hours of sleep.
So I bought a vanilla coke the next morning.
And I felt guilty. Because I was using a chemical to omit what would otherwise be the natural consequences for staying up until 3 a.m. facebook chatting.
Yes. I was facebook chatting. Until 3 a.m.
So what?
I've always been a sucker for typewriting communication.
And, like I said, after 1 a.m., very little resolve.
(I think there may have been a church sponsored admonition on that--the after 1 a.m. thing--as well.)
Anyhow, I took one sip of that vanilla coke and it was like magic.
All my problems fleeted away, replaced with the pleasant aftertaste of artificial vanilla.
And just like that, I was addicted.
Here's the thing. I spent most of my high school days, almost seriously considering the possibility of being narcoleptic. People would ask frequently why I was so tired all the time.
I didn't know.
Now I do.
YOU TRY STAYING UP UNTIL 2 a.m. AND THEN WAKING UP AT 5 a.m. WITHOUT YOUR EXPRESSO SHOTS.
All I need is 2o ml of caffeine and I'm set for the whole day. If I drank expresso, I WOULD CONQUER THE WORLD. Probably.
Or die from a heart attack.
I'm not sure which.
Anyhow, I didn't need to eat, I didn't need to sleep, caffeine seemed like the magic potion that would take all my problems away.
By the time I was driving home, I was practically bouncing in my seat.
Actually though, that was because I had to go to the bathroom SO bad.
So I stopped at a Wendy's, bought a chicken sandwich, and used their sketchy bathroom.
Then I set a guideline, 1 coke every other week.
If nothing else, I would keep this addiction in control.
Chapter 5:
Yesterday--
I tried diet coke this time.
Because my stomach hurt. And because I needed some magic.
And it was good.
And I stayed awake.
And I felt accomplished.
And I got in my car, and I was happy with my day.
And I had to pee SO bad.
So I stopped at a Jack in the Box.
And walked past the homeless men, while wearing my high heels and dress shirt.
And I ordered some Mozzarella sticks.
And I used their super sketchy bathroom that didn't even have soap.
And then I ate those stupid Mozzarella sticks that I only bought and paid for so I could have an excuse to use their super sketchy, soapless bathroom.
And, in conclusion:
I have realized, for a second time, but from personal experience this go-around, that coke is bad for your health.
If for no other reason than it results the consumption of fatty fast food and the bladder control of a pregnant woman jogging.
Since it is also magical, I still have not decided what to do about it.
I should probably quit.
And try to make it illegal.
This, my friends, is a gateway drug if I've ever seen one.
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