As a member of the Starbucks generation, I’m meant to have a Mary-KateOlsen-ian tolerance level for caffeine. I should be capable of inhaling cardboard cups of coffee twice the size of my head from sun-up to nightfall without losing a minute of my precious beauty sleep. The words, “Double Venti Nonfat Organic Latte Extra Hot with Whipped Cream” ought to roll off my tongue with the same ease as the theme song to Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and the McDonalds’ “two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun” jingle that is permanently etched in my brain.
The truth is, however, I am a traitor to my generation in this regard: I am, and always have been, a caffeine lightweight.
On an average day, I drink no coffee. Once or twice a week, when I’m especially tired, I'll have a half a cup, while the rest gets cold and, on the days when I truly forget about it, develops a film of blue mold. On the rare mornings when I'm suffering from a bad night’s sleep or the evil moonshine has posioned me, I’ll choke down a full cup and then have the shakes for an hour.
In the delicate chemical balance that is my bod, there’s a very fine line between staying awake at my desk and Jessie Spano as a “drug” addict in a very special episode of Saved By The Bell (seriously, go back and click on that link...You won't be sorry).
So when I tell you that today, my first day back at work since I flew home yesterday morning, I have had FOUR CUPS OF COFFEE and TWO DIET COKES and still had to take a short nap in the bathroom and run a lap around the block in order to function at work, then hopefully you’ll understand the severity of my jet-lagged/sleep-deprived state. And hopefully, as a result, you’ll forgive me for continuing to drag my feet in the ol’ blogosphere.
Assuming I’m not up all bouncing on my bed, singing The Pointer Sisters and wishing Mark-Paul Gosslear would save me from myself, tomorrow I’ll be back with a vengeance.
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