Confessions of an Immoderate Yogini

Nearly three weeks into my abstention from caffeine, I finally caved. No longer “physically addicted,” I endured three days of brutal headaches, sporadic nightmares, flu-like muscle aches and pains and —worst of all— three weeks of a nostalgic longing for something that had been part of my life for more years than I can remember. Flashbacks from Facebook showed gratitude posts with coffee at the top of the list. Every sip of tea had non-addicts reminding me, “Tea has caffeine in it too, ya know.” Supporters encouraged a relapse that emphasized moderation. Yet, rising at 6 am lacked luster, to say the least. And as a writer, I began to feel as though I had somehow failed the ranks of writerly geniuses who rely on coffee and bourbon to fuel their “suffering artist” persona. I could at least fulfill half the position’s requirements, couldn’t I Felt a duty to, truth be told. Every day without coffee was a day shadowed (if just gently) with grief.

An energy worker once told me years ago that in a past life, I was a monk who spent inordinate time whipping herself for lack of discipline. I could feel this vision taking shaping in my life these few weeks.

So I caved.

Life is too short to grieve every day and, let’s face it, on all other counts I’m basically a yogic nun! (PS, do nuns drink coffee? I know Master B.K.S. Iyengar does.) I got in my car and raced to the nearest Starbucks (a five-minute walk up the street) and, upon confirming that “Blonde” is the roast with the highest level of caffeine, I ordered a Super-Size-Me, Mega Tall, Mucho Grande (or something like that: basically the largest size of perkiest rocket-fuel brew available) and drove home.

Let the moderation begin.