I am 23 years old, and I am not a coffee drinker. Or, safe to say, I never was a coffee drinker. Throughout my teenage and college years, I was vehemently opposed to the dark, hot libation; the beverage my parents, siblings, friends, teachers were so thoroughly dependent on. My aunt gave me a gorgeous coffee maker for my graduation from college, and I had to embarrassingly inform her that I never (ever) drank coffee. I was being honest.
I would get to my desk yawning, stifle yawns while my boss showed me how to do things, and fight to stay awake, my eyes crossing or, in the worst moments, rolling back in my head.
I needed something. Redbull, which I was known to drink 16 ounces of to get through my waitressing shifts, was not going to cut it in corporate America. In the break room, one cloudy Tuesday, I broke. I poured a cup of coffee. I added Sweet n Low and a little milk (just how my mom drinks it). I brought it back to my desk. I stared. I thought of my father, who can drink an entire pot in one sitting. My mother, who brings her milky coffee in the car in a straight up mug, not even a travel carafe, the brown liquid threatening to spill with every turn and stoplight. I sipped. It was surprisingly sweet. It was warm. I sipped again, and again. I began to feel better, my eyes more open, my synapses firing, the headache that usually pressed from behind my eyes subsided.
What is this? The drink of the gods? No wonder experts say adults only need 7 hours of sleep a night. With enough coffee, no one would ever need sleep.