I haven’t been able to write anything funny since I stopped drinking coffee. I can’t remember if this same thing happened when I quit drinking alcohol. Or when I quit smoking.
I keep letting go of the most unhealthy parts of myself and adding more exercise. When I die, all that's gone to be left of me is kale dust and triceps.
Come to think of it, I may have a quitting addiction. I should ask my therapist. She seems objective, but who knows? Maybe she loves me and has been secretly hypnotizing me, so that one day I’ll show up at her door in a chocolate-covered nighty.
Or maybe my therapist has a dartboard with my face on it and that’s the “poingy” sound I’m always hearing, not a bad connection.
Without coffee, I get these little fits of grog. My muscles relax. My ass settles into the couch like somebody filled it with wet cement. My eyelashes flutter like Rudy Guilliani’s mascara is running.
Plastic surgeons don’t tell you this, but being freaked out all the time is like really good Botox. But once you get your shit together, do yoga, meditate, and quit coffee, your face drops down like a parachute.
My face muscles are panicking with their new found calm. They feel like pudding. They wanna know, “What’s happening? Are we wrinkling? Are we aging? Are we napping? Cheeks? Nose? Eyebrows? Anyone? Someone tell me what’s going on here!”
As someone who has been fluctuating between hyper or exhausted my entire life, this zen shit has me flummoxed. For the first time in my life, I do not want to call one person in my family and yell at them for something that happened decades ago.
And the next time I get in my car, I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna flip anyone off. But no promises. I might snap back at any moment if some lost coffee bean, swimming around my intestines, clings onto a nerve ending, and boom I’m me again, telling everyone to fuck off.
I am also considering yoga. My fear of Shavasana has miraculously lifted. Normally, the rest pose at that end of yoga class makes me panic. I have to quickly adjust my body into a Lamaze pose and breath in and out heavily as if I’m birthing a baby. It’s disruptive to the other yoga students, but I’m just trying to stay conscious, you bendy people.
Now, in post-caffeine-ville, I’m imagining my Shavasana will be accompanied by a steady stream of drool and light snoring. I may even fart. I’m not sorry. Farting is the highest form of relaxation and a woman’s way of saying “I’m free. I don’t care if you think I’m stinky.”
I’m also taking up religion, but only for the lent. On that holy day, I plan to drink, smoke, and mainline coffee. I think it’s important to be yourself at least once a year. Namaste.