I can quit coffee, yeah right

I’m trying to quit coffee. It’s sort of a seasonal thing.

Coffee tastes great in the winter, good in the early spring and especially fine after thrashing around in a cold ocean.

However, come summer and a cup of hot coffee doesn’t have the same allure as it does earlier in the year.

Drink it iced, you say, I agree and I have. There’s nothing better than iced coffee on a hot day. With warmer days, I could switch and usually do.

However, aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know if you can stop? Stop and stop on a dime.

“I have to have a cup every day,” said my friend Paul, “but I can stop anytime I want.”

I heard that. I’ve said. I’d like to believe that but in order to believe that, I have to try that.

Every so often I do. Do because I want to see how strong I am and, on the way to seeing how strong I am, I discover how weak I am, how deluded I am and how dependent I am on caffeine.

The ritual is hard to give up. Starting the day, stopping during the day, taking stock. Using a little spoon to stir in the sugar at the bottom and blend in the cream floating on top. Drinking from the special cup from Rome that makes you want to speak Italian if you knew how to speak Italian.

Then the first sip, lips peeled back if it’s too hot. The first taste of a mocha, the bewitching blend of espresso, milk and chocolate topped by a graceful milk heart, a present from a skilled barista.

Then the pleasure of the caffeine being delivered to your brain like a bolt of caffeine lightning when it goes “bo-ing.”

Confidence — back. Mountain of work — no problem. You can do anything, solve any problem and make your way through a list forward and backward. You’re patient, you’re kind, you’re Biblically sound.

However, I’m not a slave to caffeine. Weak people are, people for whom I have no respect because they don’t have any discipline, they lack fortitude and are prone to surrendering to their pathetic addictions.

That’s not me. I’ll quit because I can quit and awhile back, I did. Day One I hardly notice a thing. I don’t get it. Why do people think this is hard? This is like the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Day Two I’m dying. Have I already died? Surely death can’t be this painful.

Maybe it’s just the flu. The flu or a fatal disease.

My head is foggy. I try to remember my old phone number. I know it started with a 3. How about our address two houses ago — it was either 714, 716. I know it wasn’t a plane number like 707, 727 or 747.

I remember my name. That’s good. However, I can’t think of the name of the guy at the pool who I used to work with. It’s either Scott or Matt. It’s not Jerry. He’s definitely not a Jerry.

My head feels small and pointy. Like a pinhead. My arms appear to have shrunk. They’re two-thirds the length they were yesterday. What’s left of my arms doesn’t have any strength. Emptying the dinner plates from the dishwasher is like doing curls with steel powerlifting discs. I feel my age. Older than my age. Ancient. Day Three I probably should get out of bed but it looks hard. First you have to roll over. Then you have to swing your feet to the side and put them on the carpet. I can swing or put, but not swing and put. Day Four Maybe I should have tapered. A cup of coffee every other day. An ice-cold Coca-cola “hecho in Mexico” in between. Cold turkey isn’t for sissies. Day Five I’ve proved whatever it was I wanted to prove. Proved nor not proved. This morning I had a cup of Melozio coffee. I’m speaking Italian like Giambattista Beccaria.

I remember, too. It’s Matt, 714 and 325-4965.