If a coffee mug could speak, what would it say?
When I was nine years old, I stopped drinking coffee.
You’re probably wondering when I started. Good question — but that’s just how we were raised. Coffee was love, and my mother used to await us in the kitchen with steaming mugs every morning. We sipped the (sweet, obviously) brew still in pajamas, and only after the warmth seeped into our bones did we go get dressed and start the day.
We were very romantic like that.
We were also very short.
And although my sisters bragged that good things come in small packages, I preferred less goodness and a bigger package, thank you.
So I quit caffeine. (I also learned to sleep with my limbs stretched completely straight, to allow growth hormones to flow easily, another premise I subscribed to at age nine when I got a little phobic about growing up too good for my own good. I’m not telling any nine year olds what to do — drink all the coffee you please and sleep in a fetal position for all I care. But for the record, although nobody would call me tall, I am the tallest of all my sisters by several inches, so there.)
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