A Steaming Cup of Blankey

It’s official. It happened. I’ve been waiting for it. It has been barreling toward me for a while now. I’ve dabbled in it before, you know, tested it out just a little, enjoyed over-priced substitutions. But at last I’ve reached the milestone from which there is no return. I feel like I’m finally inducted into some secret adulthood club and can actually call myself a real member.

I’ve officially reached the point in adulting where coffee is basically holy water.

Ah, coffee.

Growing up, the aroma was glorious, but when you tasted the dark liquid from your Dad’s mug, you sputtered and gaged, because that’s just nasty. Why doesn’t it taste like it smells? Why do grown-ups drink this crap?

“It’s an acquired taste,” my Dad would tell me.

So… you drink foul black fluid until you trick yourself into believing you actually like it? What’s the point?

Now, sitting here sipping a steaming cup of joe twenty years later, I get it.

A cup of coffee brings an adult comfort like the way our blankey used to bring us comfort. Apparently, when you become an adult, it’s frowned upon to carry around your blankey. So, instead, we keep it in a drawer and we pour a soothing cup of coffee. We inhale the splendid fragrance, and enjoy a taste we used to hate but now can’t live without.

“Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.”

“Okay, I’ve had my coffee. Now don’t talk to me, because now I have to poop.”

“Okay, I pooped. But don’t talk to me, because I don’t like you.”

Ah, adulthood.

A spectrum of ups and downs and undefined in-betweens that rush us, whirl us, and leave us breathless in their wake.

It’s a lot. Too much, even.

But nothing a steaming cup of blankey won’t fix.

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