Zombie Friday Confessional: Touch of Cream, No Sugar

Before I get to today's Zombie Friday Confessional (see what I did there? I raised it from the dead), I thought I would give a quick face update. For the first time in a week, I am wearing my contacts, as well as a smidge of eye makeup. Final verdict? Too soon, friends. Toooo soon. You would think after years of dealing with the autoimmune system of a gnat, I would know better than to re-introduce several potential culprits into the lineup at the same time. However, "live and learn" isn't in my vocabulary, so I obviously ignored that advice and did it anyway. I'm not wearing concealer, so at least we know that isn't the problem. On the other hand, that means it's either my "hypoallergenic" Clinique mascara (it could be; it's three months old) or the only non-hypoallergenic thing in my makeup arsenal... my Naked pallet. In which case, I am going to go bananas.

Anyway, let's cut to the chase. It's Friday. On Fridays, we wear pink confess our deepest, darkest, most embarrassing thoughts, obsessions and musings. 

So, without further ado, I do hereby solemnly confess:

I hated --nay, I LOATHED -- coffee until I was 23.

From as early as I can remember, coffee, in even the tiniest quantity, made me gag. The whole concept of straining a bunch of pure, thirst-quenching, crystalline water through what amounts to a small pile of dirt was simply beyond my comprehension. The pungent aroma infiltrating my nostrils, the distinct acridity on the back of my tongue, the milky brownness staring up at me from my mug -- no thanks; I'll have tea (Irish breakfast; hot, never iced; milk and sugar; please and thank you).

This hatred of an American hallmark was never really a big deal until my sophomore year of college, when I pledged my sorority. After years of grabbing sodas and Dunkin' hot chocolates with my friends  (jk; I was still in shape then, so I was probably grabbing wheatgrass juice and slow-popped air), all of a sudden I was being asked out for "coffee and froyo" by the entire campus and their mother. To make matters worse, living in cowtown-Hampshire, you can bet your bottom dollar that the only "bucks" in sight were of the Bambi variety, thus robbing me of the ability to order a sophisticated, yet de-coffeenated, beverage ("chocolate chippuccino" sounds so mature, yes?)

Because I wanted to impress my new friends, most of whom were more senior than I, I generally sucked it up and ordered the least-offensive choice on the menu, cafe au lait (heavy on the au lait). Gingerly, ever so gingerly, I would raise it to my lips and sip the smallest amount I could possibly sip. "Mmm!" I cooed, doing my best not to gag while trading in two of my least favorite commodities: coffee and conversation.

After choking my way through two and a half years of this tired cliche, I finally graduated and entered the workforce. At 22, I was still young enough to burn both ends of the candle, fueling my workdays and weekends the same way I had powered through hundreds of term papers and parties: a steady diet of Tab Energy and Code Red Mountain Dew. Natural? No. But it got the job done and I didn't have to pretend to like coffee, so who cared?

And then I started my current job.

Unlike some people, I had the good fortune of overlapping with my predecessor for a good two months before she left and moved across the country. I had worked with her tangentially in the past, and, quite frankly, I was a little bit scared of her; it wasn't until I got to know her better that I realized her tough, no-nonsense demeanor was simply a byproduct of her efficiency in the office (a skill that, to some degree, I am proud to have absorbed via a slick combination of osmosis and trial by fire). Still, though, I preferred to stay under her radar as best I could, so, on my second day, as she commenced the ceremonial pouring of the coffee and handed me a cup, I took it. And when she started doctoring up our boss' cup and asked me how I take mine, I frantically ran through all of the buzzwords I had learned over the past few years (Cafemochacino? Soyaventihalfcafwithcream?) and blurted out the simplest answer:

"Just like that, actually!"

"Just like that", as I later found out, was actually something of a bold choice. No sweetener to blunt the sharpness of the beans; no flavoring agent to transform it into a steaming cup of candy cane goodness. Just plain, strong coffee with the tiniest kiss of half and half or light cream.

Over the following few months, I progressed from timidly sipping under my coworker's hawkeye to gulping it outright once I realized how much better the coffee buzz is than one from diet energy drinks. And while I'm not exactly sure when it happened, I soon found myself sharing my roommate's morning pot at home and, dare I say it, looking forward to the stolen moments in my cubicle with a steaming cup o' joe.

And that is how I went from a coffee-hating, mystery chemical-swilling college kid to a two-cups-a-day, touch-of-cream-no-sugar, member of naturally caffeinated society.

Just like that.