I quit coffee last week. It was a long time coming and my nerves are still trying to recover from the exclusion of my routine morning and afternoon jumpstart. The usual ritual was to shotgun a cup as soon as my feet hit my kitchen floor. Then I would stop at a coffee shop on the way into work for a large cup of Columbian, Kenyan, or whatever flavor from the south of the equator.

Those two cups would last me through noon and then, shortly after lunch, I would be back on the automatic drip wondering if I’d get better effects with a syringe instead of simply drinking it.

My real problem isn’t so much the coffee as it is the sugar. I’ve got the genetic code of a vampire; once I have a taste of something I can’t stop. Only for me (fortunately) instead of blood, it’s white granular sugar. It’s my perfect drug. I can tweak-out on it just enough so that I feel the rush without putting anybody but myself in harm’s way. I may tap my foot a lot, but nobody is going to accuse me of any wrongdoings because I get behind the wheel of a car after drinking a cup of sugar-infused coffee.

Even though sugar is the monkey on my back, coffee is the vehicle I use to get my daily fix started. I take more sugar in my coffee than most ... way more ... so much more that I often catch myself unconsciously guarding my hand and the five packets of straight sugar I pour into every cup. God forbid somebody see me polluting a perfectly good cup of java with enough sugar to kill a puppy.

To end my daily sugar high (and self-image low-sugar is not your friend if your trying to return to some similitude of your pre-baby shape), I have decided that it is best I end my love affair with coffee for now.

There was a time in my life when I never drank coffee ever. I didn’t drink it in college or through my 20s. My gateway coffee was an Iceberg from Hobknobb Roasting Company. Their Iceberg drink is similar to a Starbuck’s frappuccino. It’s served cold and a bit frothy with slight chocolate taste, kind of like a smoothie only with coffee instead of fruit. It tasted delightful.

I went from the Iceberg to a latte in less than a month. Lattes are good and they can give a kick, but they fall just short of the boost I need now that I am a mom. I was hooked on a little drink called a ‘Dirty Chai’ for a while. Besides being fun to order, it’s a chai latte with an espresso shot mixed in. I still fancy it when there’s no need for a rush, like after a meal with friends or as the contraband that I sneak into a movie theater. When I am in need of keeping my eyes open and my body going in a forward direction, a fresh, hot, cup of coffee in my favorite mug with a healthy dose of half-and-half and a not so healthy dose of sugar is my best device.

... Or was. I’ve now replaced that first cup of coffee in the morning with a 20-minute walk. “Wow, Amy, how healthy you sound,” you may be thinking. But don’t get any false images of me springing out of bed wearing a smile and sweatband. I fight every step. I am sure that I look like a half-drunk, half-crazy person walking the mile-loop near my neighborhood these past mornings at 6:30 a.m. I don’t brush my hair. I don’t brush my teeth. I don’t do anything but throw on the clothes that I walk in and head out the door. If I take any time to consider what I am doing, I will talk myself into sleeping another 15 minutes or drinking an entire pot of coffee.

So we will see how this goes. I’m on my first week and can see significant changes already. I won’t bore you with the Dr. Oz rhetoric and list the benefits, but I will say that quitting coffee hasn’t been as difficult as I imagined.

I am hoping that one day, we — my coffee and I — can eventually be friends again. Maybe catch up on weekend mornings or that odd weekday when I have time to stop and do a crossword puzzle over eight-ounces of a Guatemala blend. We can laugh about how we used to spend every minute of every morning together and how I would corrupt it with all my packets of shame-ridden sweet stuff. I’ll sip it slowly, savoring the taste without gulping it down to warp speed the after-effects. It will avoid asking me about my morning walks or looking me in the eyes when it asks if I would like my old habit of an immediate second cup.

“No,” I will sigh, “We’re just friends now,” and slowly walk away.

Amy Gesenhues is a freelance writer who lives in Floyd County. You can read her daily commentaries at www.AmyWroteIt.Wordpress.com. E-mail her directly at amy@amywroteit.com.