We went for an early dinner last night to the delicious and award-winning Mulberry Street Pizzeria, where I very happily had:
1 side salad, ranch dressing on the side
1 slice of their delicious house-made bread dipped in dressing
1 slice of pizza
1 chocolate chip cookie so warm and gooey I ate it with a spoon
1 cup of decaf coffee
The husband and I are both eating less at the moment, so I make an effort to count my food, to be really conscious about what goes in the mouth, and how much exercise I am or am not getting. Naturally, he is doing better at this than me, but I am still doing what I can.
Oh, I forgot to say that I ordered 1 beer, of which I drank probably 2/3. Lately my rule has been either alcohol or dessert. Last night, clearly I forgot my own rule. Oops.
A cup of coffee after dinner is always appealing and is generally something I avoid. But last night, for whatever reason -- I was having a good time, Joe was whispering stories to me about people at neighboring tables, I was eavesdropping on the extremely good dad in the next booth speaking quietly and strongly to his two small children about how one behaves in a restaurant -- I went for the coffee. It's also true that I was feeling super-content about having had all three meals on a weekday in the company of my sweetheart, if I count his rushed multi-tasking breakfast before he dashed out on his ride.
The coffee arrived in a tall skinny glass mug and was surprisingly tasty. With one teaspoon of cream stirred into it.
No surprise it was tasty. I had plenty of time between 2 and 5 this morning to consider that that weren't no decaf.
This has happened to me countless times, and yet I still reach for it from time to time, given my love of the flavor, the combination of the hot and bitter with something cooler and sweet after dinner, the perfect finish. I adore coffee and reject any cure that requires me to give it up. I've quit it a few times, only to quit the quitting and come back on board, savoring the return and the steady, sustaining buzz of the caffeine. I love it.
Being awake was not so bad. I grabbed my headlamp and read for about an hour, my 1,000-page novel propped on a pillow. I listened to coyotes yipping in the neighborhood. I turned out the light and tried to sleep, but listened to owls instead and to Joe's steady, sometimes snarfly, breathing. I got up a few times as the full moon traveled across the sky, to see if I could glimpse the Perseid meteor shower, or maybe the raccoons sneaking around the yard. No luck. I dozed between 5 and 6 finally, interrupted by the alarm three times, 5:30, 5:35 and 6, and now here I am, after a mostly restless night.
But not unhappy at all.
And wondering if really I'm a little nocturnal and crepuscular. I love the middle of the night and the early morning and the dusky time, but not so much the middle. So I'm feeling grateful to that cup of coffee after dinner last night for letting me experience the dark and all its sounds, for giving me an hour more to read. I may crash around 2pm but it was so worth it, so tasty, so good.