Just a rambling before hitting the sack

I was wondering how I can still manage to read an article at two in the morning, and traced back the culprit: I sipped my wife's coffee a few times. Black, without sugar or cream, and a bite of glazed doughnut, also hers. I truly enjoy the sudden rush of energy caffeine does, that badge worn with pride by coffee drinkers: more productivity. I envy people who can actually stay up late to work or read, who can actually say they drink four cups of coffee a day, and that it keeps them awake, energetic. Is this their secret to having accomplished more?

I don't drink coffee that much. When I was younger I enjoy coffee in minute amounts, as my discovery of its "use" had only been incidental after having dunked pan de sal, slathered with butter and sugar, to a mug of coffee my Mom prepares for herself every morning. 

Most of the time I sleep for eight hours. Drinking coffee means reviewing for a difficult exam, or going through the herculean task of writing the first few sentences of a short story. I never craved for coffee just because. I'm a water person: no juice, no iced tea, no Coke or Pepsi. Sometimes tea, as I consider it closest to coffee, but just as bland as water. 

Sometimes it comes to mind that maybe I have to drink coffee to give myself extra time to read, or write. But the opposite happens most of the time: it seems to me that what I drink is almost always too strong for me, that I always palpitate, or get too excited, or jittery, until I exhaust my energy and sleep soundly a couple of minutes after.

My wife had suggested before that I drink my coffee in the afternoon, hours before sleeping. Maybe that time of the day can reverse the effect. 

But I like dreaming. The morning after the Christmas party we had in this bar specializing in Czech beer, where I had downed too many a shot glass of Patron, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker, I dreamt of the officemate I was with at the taxi the night before, also drunk. We were in this house with a hole in the wall, and fire was about to come in. That was the only thing I remembered, and it woke me up at 8AM. Without headaches.

With coffee I don't dream much, and I wake up feeling like I've spent so many hours jogging, or staring blankly at a white wall as part of a social experiment. I'd like to think that my inability to appreciate coffee must have been a good thing after all: good sleep quality, a never-wonky body clock. But what if coffee is part of growing up?

Maybe I have never grown up at all. Maybe I have wasted precious time sleeping, when I could have drank coffee hours before bedtime and read two, three articles and even have the time to blog about the humdrum of life, about the drone of the fridge, or the light sound of a finger pressing a switch.

I have received a Starbucks tumbler from the gift-giving ritual Christmas parties have. Dad was joyful: he knew I wouldn't use it, and although he inquired about my wife's being interested in it, I knew deep inside he wanted it. So I said sure, you can have it.