So, a therapy hangover is a thing. And I didn’t know it existed until this morning. It is awful. All of the talking about the heady stuff makes for a very tired body, a woozy head, and increased my need for coffee. The anxiety and mood are different, too. Not happy, not sad. I’m not sure how to describe it.
Imagine my rage when I walked downstairs today and realized that my husband drank the last of the iced coffee. He kissed me on the cheek while I still snoozed this morning, never mentioned a word, and ducked out of here…fast. My beloved left an empty 64oz Ball canning jar on the counter (incidentally, they are awesome for making and storing iced coffee). Seriously?
It’s not like I drink a ton of coffee; 2, 16 oz. iced coffees every morning. Splash of Silk Vanilla soy milk. Tons of ice. The problem is…I have become a coffee snob, and snobbery isn’t my thing. Maybe I should just own my bougie bean bitchiness proudly like I do my HRT patch.
We don’t drink hot coffee in our house because, well, it’s just wrong. I realize that by divulging my allegiance to team iced coffee means I have likely ticked off the hot-bean folks. Whatever. Anyway, it’s not like I could make more morning Joe on the fly. To make it proper iced coffee takes time. The flavor is achieved by mixing the perfect amount of ground coffee, running cold water through the filter, and letting it steep on the counter for 18 hours. For the perfect flavor, you need to use french grind. It is absolute nutty perfection. And it can make or break a morning.
I reluctantly considered resorting to typical hangover foods from my early 20s. Something fatty, fried, salty, and dense. A gut grenade. Then, I was slapped in the face by the realization that this isn’t a real hangover and I’m not 22 anymore. Eating this kind of food will only throw me into a culinary-induced form of gastroparesis. You see, when you’re near 5 decades old, ingesting food comes with a price tag. And it’s not the price tag that attaches itself to your ass. This price tag is for the value package of owning a decades-old esophagus and gastrointestinal tract, which aren’t as efficient as they used to be. When you are north of 40, you can’t eat food like a normal person anymore. Basically, it’s a rare day when I willingly sacrifice my abdominal comfort for a gastronomic splurge.
And I’m not willing to pay the price of heartburn and abdominal cramps because I’m dealing with demons from my past. So, I forge on like any respectable, middle-aged mom. I will spend $9 on a coffee at Starbucks (good but not the flavor I crave every morning), blame my husband for the ensuing dip in our bank balance, and have avocado toast instead.
Adulting is awesome.
